The Long Way Home
by S. Faith
Summary: Mark's idea of coping with a difficult situation is not to cope with it. Assumes the timeline of the novels/books, particularly Bridget Jones's Baby: The Diaries, from which this takes some dialogue.
1. Chapter 1

**The Long Way Home**

By S. Faith, © 2017

Words: 23,353  
Rating: M / R  
Summary: Mark's idea of coping with a difficult situation is… not to cope with it.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters.  
Notes: This story assumes the timeline of the novels/books, particularly _Bridget Jones's Baby: The Diaries_ , from which this takes some dialogue.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 **June**

It had been like a dream. And apparently no more real as one.

He sighed, then let the drape he had pulled aside fall down. The sparkling pinpoints of light that comprised the San Francisco evening skyline was beautiful, but he needed sleep after the long day of travel he'd just had.

But first, some wine, something to eat.

The flat had been stocked at his request with some of the basic necessities. A bottle of red wine sat on the counter, which he uncorked then poured a generous serving. He reached for a second wineglass, but stopped himself. He then turned for the fridge.

Inside was a covered dish that he drew out and placed it into the microwave. He pushed a button labelled Reheat, then leant back against the kitchen counter; he folded his arms across his chest, and waited, and got lost in his thoughts again.

He had only physically been gone from London for a little more than twenty-four hours. Mentally, he had been separated from his life there for a much longer period of time. Disconnected. It had been the only way, really, to make a clean break. To properly erect the wall around his heart again. To forget what he had hoped might be.

Ding.

The dinner plate was a decent steak with a side of potatoes and carrots, and he sat at the table in the relative quiet and worked his way through the meal while he skimmed through a copy of that day's paper. When he finished, he set the paper down and sighed once more.

 _This was life now, I guess_ , he thought.

…

 **The previous February**

Deep down, he knew it was nothing.

Deep down, he knew it was not her fault.

But the incident—in which he found his fiancée on the floor with Daniel, who had his hand on her thigh, at their engagement party—had planted the seed of an idea that, now germinated, could not be stopped.

He couldn't make her happy. Not in the way that she needed. Despite what she'd said to him, she would always need a little bit more fun and excitement than he was capable of giving her.

The parallels with his first wife, whom he had caught with Daniel just two weeks after their own wedding, had not escaped him. And that's why it had hurt him so much. He had been hurt so badly after the betrayal of a woman he had never even really loved. How could he bear the thought of the possibility of betrayal of a woman that he loved as much as he loved Bridget?

He _did_ still love her. He always would. But he was not right for her. Not for the long term.

As much as he hated to admit it, she was not right for him, either. She would never fit in with the people that he worked with. Not that this was a shortcoming on her part; it was just a statement of fact. It was just too much to overcome, as he had realised time and time again. Every time that she had come to a work function with him, everything seemed to have turned out disastrously.

In the end, the only word he kept thinking to describe their relationship was 'doomed.'

…

He had the weekend to adjust to the time difference. To pass the time until the rest of his things arrived—at least, the things he needed while he lived here—he went to visit some of the notable sights during the day, and did some legal review in the evenings for the job at hand.

On Monday, he turned up to the first informal meeting with the team with which he was working, feeling confident and ready to take on the difficult caseload. The team, brought together to combat the scourge of human trafficking, had been built by the well-known philanthropist Richard Bernard, and included the best legal minds from around the world. Not exactly joyful work, he mused, but the discussions he had with the group invigorated him and reaffirmed his decision to set aside his own personal travails to work for the greater good.

Work made the days fly by. When they didn't work into the evening, though, Mark was more or less on his own. The flat that he had let seemed very quiet and empty. The lawyers closer to his own age had families at home, and the younger of the group who did not have such attachments tended to go out for dinner and drinks, which Mark declined after the first such night out was nothing but discomfort for him. He felt old enough to be their father, and he had nothing in common with them outside of work.

He had never been all that good at socialising. This particular discomfort was something he was used to, but having nothing at all familiar around him only underscored how solitary a man he really was. Compounding everything, though, was the deep and pervasive pain of missing the woman he had left behind in London, the one he still loved despite all reason and good sense.

…

 **August**

Six weeks after arriving, there was a change to the monotony of the work day; they would all be taking the day away from their legal work and attending a launch party for an awareness campaign related to the work they were doing, which was also sponsored by Bernard. "It'll be nice to get outside," said Dennis, flashing a smile. "I feel like I haven't seen the sun in weeks."

"If the sun deigns to make an appearance," said Yolanda, also smiling. "But I'm willing to chance it."

The sun did indeed shine down upon the attendees; the event planners took a risk in holding the event out of doors at the Palace of Fine Arts, but the risk had been worth it. The weather was pleasant and not overly warm, despite it being August. Mark nursed a glass of wine and wandered ever further away from the bulk of the activities to sit and take in the surroundings from a position on a bench. He very much enjoyed the peace and quiet of the outdoors, the way the sunlight struck the stone structures and lit them up like gold, how the wind rustled through the trees and played along the surface of the water.

"Mark?"

The sound of his own name snapped him out of his reverie, and he turned in the direction of it.

"Oh my God, I thought that was you."

He had to blink a few times to make sure he was seeing what—or whom—he thought he was seeing. He hadn't actually seen her in probably close to five years, but she looked almost exactly the same as when he'd seen her last. Same short, tidy brown hair. Same sort of boxy, unfeminine suits about which he had heard comments on multiple occasions, but that she was somehow able to make work. He got to his feet, smiled cautiously. "Natasha. I never expected to see you here."

She, too, seemed cautious. "Same," she said. "I didn't know you were involved with Bernard's group. What are you—oh, of course. You must be working with the anti-trafficking legal team. I'm working advocating for the children that are rescued."

It made perfect sense, and he nodded.

Natasha's eyes made a broad sweep of the near vicinity. "So… Bridget? She's here with you, surely?"

Hearing her say the name like it left a bad taste in her mouth was like opening a wound for Mark, but he would not let it show. "No. She's not."

"Ah. Keeping the home fires burning, then?"

"Not that, either," he said, feeling his whole body tense. "We're not together anymore."

"Oh," she said. "Well, I'm sorry."

 _No, you aren't_ , he thought. In fact, he suspected she was bursting to crow that she had told him so. Mark decided to head any such discussion off. "I'd rather not discuss it, to be honest."

"None of my business," she said, holding up her hands, which surprised him. "So are you living here in the city?"

Mark nodded. "You?" he asked; polite conversation dictated he ask as much.

"Temporarily, for now," she said, lifting her chin very slightly. "I'm still based in New York City, but I'm thinking of relocating here. This is the work I want to continue to do."

Mark found himself nodding again. It was important work. "I understand that completely," he said quietly.

There were many moments of silence before either spoke again, and then it was Natasha who did so. "Well," she said. "I know our… parting was not exactly on the best of terms, but I am pleased to see you again. And I… well, I'm sure it hurt you, the split with Bridget, and for that I am sorry." She smiled again, small and tight. "I'd best get to mingling again."

He was momentarily stunned at her courtesy, and responded, "Nice to see you."

With that she made her way back towards the party. He could only watch her retreat and wonder exactly what to make of the encounter.

He wouldn't have to wonder long. That next weekend, his mobile rang, and it was Natasha.

"Oh, I hope you don't mind, but I got your number from Yolanda," she said. "I'm attending a lecture tonight in Berkeley and suddenly find myself with an extra ticket. Since it's Alexa de los Rios speaking, you were the first person I thought of…"

The 'extra ticket' story was the sort of romantic manipulation she would have used once upon a time—this much he knew in retrospect from Bridget's analyses—but he had to admit he was tempted. He well knew the name de los Rios; he also knew she did not make many public speaking appearances.

"Mark? Are you still there?"

"Oh, yes, sorry," he said quickly, snapping out of his thoughts. "I would very much like to attend. I've admired her for some time, so thank you."

"You're welcome," she said. "I was planning on driving anyway, so I can pick you up. Where are you staying?"

He gave her the address of his flat.

"All right," she said. "See you at five-thirty."

…

Inspirational.

He had not been so inspired by a talk in many a year, and as the lights came up and they made their way out of the lecture hall, he was very grateful for the random encounter at the Palace of Fine Arts that led him to attend that night.

"What do you say, then?"

Mark turned to his companion. "Pardon?"

"Stop for a drink, talk about the lecture?"

His immediate response was to say no, but in all honesty, he welcomed the chance to discuss the points that had been brought up that night, and Natasha was nothing if not a sharp legal mind. "Sure," he said.

They ended up traveling back to the city before finding a bar for a cocktail and a few snacks. Her analyses of what de los Rios had spoken of was insightful and provided Mark with points of view he had not considered. He had apparently also given her a thing or two to think about, things that she had not considered. All in all, it was an evening well spent.

As she pulled the car up in front of his building, he said, "Thank you, again, for thinking of me for this lecture. Invigorating, professionally."

She laughed lightly. "Glad to do it," she said, putting the car in park. "I'll be in town for another week. I'm sure we'll cross paths again."

He found himself pleased at the thought; he had, perhaps, been too long without friendly banter from someone familiar to him. Been too long alone. "Looking forward," he said, then pushed the door open. "Goodnight."

To his surprise, it was nearly half past midnight.

The pleasant night that he'd had got his thoughts to churning, and got him to wondering about his future, wondering if his original plan hadn't been the right one, after all.

…

September brought a lingering sombreness; the cooling temperatures heralded the advent of autumn. The fog and the cool, strangely enough, made him think of London. Made him miss it. He had been so busy that he had given the life he'd left behind nary a thought.

While he was contemplating this turn of the weather just after breakfast on Sunday, the weekend of the equinox, his telephone rang, shrilly interrupting his thoughts.

"Mark, hello! How's your day been?"

"My day?" he asked.

She clicked her tongue, and as she did so he realised what she'd meant. He had, after all, never been one for much fanfare about his birthday.

"It's only just started," he said quickly. "But I don't have any plans, really. It's a rare day off." Before she could comment further, he asked, "How are you?" He glanced at his watch. "Must be about time for supper there… Beef Wellington, or a nice salmon fillet?"

"Beef, of course; you know your father," she said. "More to the point, Mark, I wanted to know when you were coming home."

"Mother," he said gently, pinching the corners of his eyes.

"You know that we worry about you," she said. "We're doing fine, but we miss you."

"I'm fine," he insisted. He could hear voices in the background. A voice, one he recognised. Pam Jones. A creeping suspicion washed over him, confirmed in his mother's next words.

"You young people are so determined to hide how you _really_ are," she said. "Do you know Bridget said the same thing to me? That she was fine? But she looked so sad, drawn… lost…"

He sighed. He knew what this was; it was not difficult to know when Pam and Elaine had schemed in the past for their children. He was not so heartless, though, to not be concerned to hear she was sad.

"That's—" he began, before he cleared his throat; he was in no mood to talk further about the conflicting feelings swirling in his head. It sounded like an obvious excuse; nevertheless, he said, "I've just remembered that I made plans to see a matinee."

After a beat of silence, she said, her voice much cooler, "Oh. Well, enjoy your matinee, then."

"Always nice to hear from you, Mother," he said, suddenly feel guilty for throwing her off. "We'll talk soon."

He put down the phone, then, in contemplation, sipped from his coffee again. He felt suddenly like going out somewhere—perhaps to have something to relay back to his mother, since he didn't like to lie or invent events that didn't happen—and realised that Natasha might also already be returned from New York. He reached for the phone and dialled the number he had for her.

"This is a nice surprise," she said. "To what do I owe this honour?" She was in good spirits, a lightness in her voice as she spoke.

"Checking in to see how things are going with the relocation," he said. "Are you back in San Francisco?"

"Yes, in fact; thanks for asking," she said. "Not too far from you, actually. Beautiful view of the bay."

"Pleased to hear it," he said. "Look, would you care to join me this afternoon? Lunch, or a matinee if I can find some available theatre tickets?"

"Special occasion?"

"Just wanting to take advantage of the local culture," he said. "And truth be told, I need to get out. Feeling a little boxed in, if I'm honest."

"Well, if you can find the tickets, I'd be happy to join you. I appreciate you thinking of asking me."

After a few phone calls, he had secured tickets for _Rigoletto_ at 2pm, and a table for two at the café at the opera house beforehand. He then rang up Natasha again to confirm.

"I'll pick you up at eleven."

"Great," she said, then gave him her address. "I'll see you then."

…

"You asked me earlier if it was a special occasion," Mark said, as he drove Natasha back towards her flat; their lunch and the opera production had been a day well spent. One of his best, if he were honest, since his arrival; perhaps this was why he felt comfortable enough to confide in her. "I didn't tell you the full truth."

"Oh really?" she asked. He glanced over; she was smiling, her dark eyes sparkling. "So what's the deep, dark secret?"

He said, "It's my birthday."

"Your birthday? I had no idea. Happy birthday."

"I had very little to do with it," he said drolly, "but thank you." After a pause, during which he had to navigate troublesome traffic, he continued. "I didn't mention it because it's not a big deal to me, but some people find it odd that I don't really mark it."

"How old?"

"Pardon?"

She laughed. "How old are you?"

He smiled, eyes scanning the road ahead of him. "I thought it was impolite to ask."

"It's impolite to ask a woman," she corrected.

"Sexist," Mark said with a smirk.

"I'll guess, then," she said. "Thirty-five."

He glanced over to her again. "That's overly generous," he said. "Forty-five."

She didn't reply, and when he could he looked at her again. Her expression was odd, somewhere between amusement and tenderness. "That seems about right," she said. "I mean, you can't be where you are in your field at the tender age of thirty-five. What _was_ I thinking?"

He came up to the block on which her building sat, then slid up to the kerb. "Here we are," Mark said. "Your building."

"Ah, so we are," she said, glancing around. "It was a lovely afternoon. Thanks for asking me."

"My pleasure," he said.

She furrowed her brows ever so slightly. "Do you—do you want to come up? Maybe we can, I don't know, have some supper?"

He thought about the offer; it was just about suppertime, he would need to eat, and it was early enough that he could still return home in time to retire at his usual time. And he really didn't want to eat alone again. Even takeaway shared with someone seemed a better prospect than takeaway on his own. "Sure."

…

 **October**

"You're coming to the party, right?"

Mark looked up to see that one of the interns was hovering in the doorway of his office. She was a bright young woman— _Young enough to be my daughter_ , he realised, suddenly feeling ancient—who was in the last semester of earning her law degree. He had not encountered her often, but he seemed to recall her first name was Jennifer.

"Party? What for?"

She grinned. "Halloween. You know?"

He did know, though he hadn't given it much thought. In England, Halloween was not a holiday in which adults ordinarily participated; it was more of a children's holiday. "Ah, no, hadn't planned to."

"Everyone else is coming," she said. "Even your girlfriend."

He looked up in utter confusion. "Girlfriend?"

"Ms Glenville."

He was about to protest, but he realised that he did spend a lot of time with Natasha, nearly every evening, and that she came to the office frequently for them to have lunch together. He hadn't slept with her since their re-acquaintance, but they were otherwise as close as could be to being in a relationship.

"Sorry, Mr Darcy, I didn't mean to offend you," she said, interpreting his silence as disapproval.

"You didn't," he said. "I was just not aware of this party."

Jennifer looked visibly relieved, and smiled again. "You should definitely come. Saturday. Ms Glenville has the details." With that, she stepped away.

He glanced to his desk calendar and saw that the 31st of October was in a week, on a Wednesday, so it made sense that the party would be held the Saturday prior. Picking up his phone's handset, he dialled Natasha's line.

"Mark," she said by way of answering, sounding rushed, hurried. "I was just leaving my office. Did you need something?"

"Nothing important, just wanted to ask about this Halloween party I hear you've committed to attending."

She laughed lightly. "Oh, that. I was going to ask you about it the next time I saw you. I know we don't really _do_ adult Halloween in England, but it's good to socialise outside of the office."

He pondered for a moment, then asked, "Would we have to wear fancy dress?"

"You could just wear a suit and say you're James Bond," Natasha said.

"And who would you be?"

"I've arranged a costume rental assuming you might like the Bond idea. That's all I'll say."

Since Mark's recollection of Bond was basically that he wore bowties to play baccarat, he in no way felt the need to do further research. He was oddly curious as to what her choice of costume was going to be. And occasionally his thoughts would stray to what sort of fancy dress Bridget might have picked. He wasn't proud of the fact that, in the weakness he sometimes felt in the small hours, he mentally imagined Bridget done up in the manner of that iconic Bond beach scene, emerging dripping wet from the ocean in the barest of bikinis, just like Ursula Andress.

…

The party was in Marin, at a home of one of the partners. Mark offered to drive them, and when he turned up for her at her flat at 7pm, she was ready to go. She was dressed in what appeared to be a long white dress, except he realised as she walked towards him that it was actually more like a pantsuit, and wasn't constructed of fabric so much as—well, it reminded Mark of his mother's doilies, if he were to be honest, but he would have never said that to her.

He also noted she seemed to be wearing more makeup than usual, and her hair had been coiffed in a style that he'd never seen her wear before. On her feet, she wore white heeled shoes, making her nearly the same height as he was.

It was a bit more risqué than anything he'd ever seen her in, even though she was wearing clothing beneath the pantsuit that closely matched her skin tone, covering her up. The pantsuit, though, just hung from her thin form the way a dress would have hung from a clothes hanger, rather than cling to her body. For a moment his thoughts drifted to a certain Tarts and Vicars party…

"Well, what do you think?" she asked, beaming a smile; she seemed very proud of her ensemble.

"Nice. Very nice."

"Thanks," she said. "Do you know who I am?"

The question perplexed him for a moment before he realised she was asking if he knew who she was supposed to be. Between the hairstyle, makeup, and outfit, she had a definite 1960s look about her, but he did not know specifically who she was meant to be. He could think of only one fashion plate from the 1960s, and so he said, "Twiggy?"

Her smile fell, and she pursed her lips. "No," she said icily. "It's a replica of an outfit that Diana Rigg wore in a Bond movie. I'm a _Bond_ girl."

"Ah," Mark said, the light dawning. "Of course you are. Come on, let's go, or we'll be late."

Her spirits rebounded during the short drive north over the Golden Gate Bridge, and by the time they arrived she was smiling again. Their host, Caleb Lincoln, greeted them dressed in a black jacket, waistcoat, and cravat, wearing a false beard and a stovepipe hat. "I figured I should just embrace the name, already," he said; the effect was rather funny, as Caleb was a short, squat man. He looked to Mark. "Bond, eh?" Turning to Natasha, he said, "And let me guess… you're Twiggy?"

She shot a glare not to Caleb, but to Mark. "I need a drink," she said.

"Ah, allow me," Caleb said, then wandered away.

He returned shortly with two drinks; the two them began to mingle. To Mark's dismay—yet, somehow, also to his amusement—everyone guessed who he was meant to be instantly, yet guessed her to be Twiggy.

"Why does everyone assume Twiggy?" Natasha said at last, sounding quite frustrated. "I'm not even blonde."

"Oh!" said Jennifer, who was dressed up like Hermione from the Harry Potter films, curly ginger wig and all. "You're a Bond girl!"

"Thank you!" Natasha said, feeling vindicated at last.

"Well, that makes perfect sense, doesn't it?" asked Lincoln. "Bond…" he said as he gestured to Mark, then he gestured to Natasha. "Bond girl!"

"Which one?" asked a muffled voice from behind a hockey mask, someone in a costume that looked straight out of a horror film, fake plastic butcher knife in hand.

"Sorry?"

The hockey mask flipped up to reveal another one of the interns, Patrick. "Which Bond girl?"

Natasha was uncharacteristically flustered. "Well, I, um…"

"Diana Rigg," interjected Jason, who had a reputation for being a bit of a film buff. Natasha seemed pleased to hear him say this name. "She played Teresa 'Tracy' Di Vicenzo. Or rather, Tracy Bond. His one and only wife."

Natasha looked smug. "Yes, of course; her."

Now Jason smirked. "Shortest marriage in film history."

Mark laughed lightly, slipped an arm consolingly around her shoulders. "It's only a bit of fiction."

Once she had a mixed drink in her, she relaxed considerably, and was even a little flirty. Mark switched to sparkling water after the first drink, since he'd be driving back, but the single drink had its intended effect, and he too felt quite relaxed, even happy. He genuinely had a nice time—he felt at home amongst his colleagues.

He was surprised when, as people began to gather up their things for the night, that the time was after midnight. Natasha was still a bit tipsy, so she held on to Mark for balance as they walked back to his car.

"You made a smashing Bond," she said as he helped her into the passenger seat of his car. "Oh. Am I driving?"

"No," he said with a laugh under his breath. "The steering wheel is on the left." He shut the door, then went around to the driver's seat.

During the course of the drive, her hand drifted to rest on his thigh. This made him, strangely enough, ponder thoughts of long ago, about when he'd considered marriage as nothing more than merger. And how well it could actually have worked with her.

How well it might still work.

"Natasha," he said.

"Hmm?"

He glanced over to her. Her dark, shining eyes were upon him. Her fingernails raked the fabric of his trousers just over the knee.

"Would you care to come home with me?"

Another glance her way revealed that she was smirking. "Christ, Mark, I thought you'd never ask."

They didn't say much as he put the car into its assigned space, or on the lift ride up to his flat. The lights were set to the dimmest level when they came in, but going straight to his bedroom made turning them up unnecessary. It was a bit clumsy and awkward, and if he were to be honest, he had a bit of trouble reaching climax, but he chalked it up to the drinks. The release felt great—and he'd needed it.

She certainly had proof she'd been hoping he'd suggest they sleep together; she was prepared regarding protection. He did admire that about her. She planned for contingencies, and she planned well.

…

Six months ago, he never would have believed he would have slept with Natasha again, but here he was, in his kitchen, making a pot of coffee and trying to decide what to make for breakfast. He was pondering that he had no fresh fruit—a morning favourite of hers, this he recalled—when she came into the kitchen wearing a dressing gown of his.

"Morning," she said. Her tone was unsure, or so it seemed to him.

"Morning," he returned. "Coffee's on. I was just pondering breakfast." He looked up and met her gaze. "Did you sleep well?"

She allowed a small smile. "Wonderfully, thanks," she said. "I don't suppose you have any pastry, do you?"

This surprised him. She didn't usually eat things like pastries. His surprise must have shown, because she laughed lightly.

"I do have a treat, once in a while, on special occasions," she mused.

As she poured coffee for both of them, he warmed up a couple of croissants; as he did, he considered what he had been pondering the night before, during the drive back. He brought them and the strawberry jam back to the breakfast nook, where she had taken a seat.

As they ate, he realised that she was watching him, as if gauging a reaction, then said, "I wasn't sure how you'd react the morning after. I know we have not been together like this for a long time, so…"

He knew to what she was hinting. Since he'd been with Bridget. "As you can see, I'm reacting just fine," he said with a small smile.

"Glad to see it." She reached her hand out and traced her fingers over the back of his hand.

"Actually, I've been thinking," he said, "about something we discussed a while ago."

She brought her brows together. "Oh?"

He nodded, raising his coffee to take a sip.

"Don't leave me in suspense," she said playfully. "What did we talk about?"

"Marriages and mergers."

One of her brows cocked up. "And what have you been thinking, exactly?"

"That we make a good team," he said, meeting her gaze, "and that we should make the partnership official."

She glanced down as she began to swirl the coffee in her mug; her lips pursed, but also turned up slightly in a smile. "I think," she said, "that this might possibly be one of your better ideas."

She took the shower first, during which he contemplated telling his mother about this new development. When he emerged from the shower, he found her paging through her day planner… and his. "I'm not seeing any free time that synchs up until December," she said, not looking up. "Still, it gives us time to plan something nice. Is that all right for you?"

"Sure," he said. He didn't really know what else to say. Then again, he shouldn't have been surprised. She took charge. She got things done. She did not wait for others to do it first.

"Perfect."

…

Being too busy herself to handle planning a wedding, Natasha hired someone to do the work for her. Within two weeks everything was in place. How she managed to book a venue for a reception two months hence was beyond him.

He called his mother to invite her and his father.

"I'm sorry, I think I misheard you," she said. "Maybe we have a poor connection. Surely you did not just say 'wedding,' with regards to Natasha Glenville." The tone of her voice suggested that she had not, in fact, misheard him.

"Yes, I did," he said. "I didn't expect you to approve, but I would like you and Father to attend all the same."

There was a long silence—a few seconds, probably, that felt like an eternity—before she spoke. "I'd hoped this wouldn't happen," she said quietly, more to herself than to him, then sighed. "Sorry, Mark, but we won't be attending."

To hear her say this stunned him. He had done plenty in the past that she hadn't approved of—his previous marriage chief amongst them—but she had always stood by his side and supported him.

"I don't understand," he said at last.

"I want to support you in this, Mark, because you're a fully grown adult," she explained. "But this is not a good decision—and you know why I think this—so I can't. I'm sorry."

"I see," he said.

"You can pass on our regrets; if it helps, say that it's too great a journey for us right now, with your father's health," she said. "I have to go. We'll talk soon."

With that, she put the phone down. He was almost grateful for it, because he was not sure he would have known what to say, anyway. He knew exactly what her objection was. Admittedly, he had also found himself thinking of how wedding plans would have been going if Bridget were still his intended bride; she would have taken care of every small detail with the greatest of care (if last minute), changed her mind ten times on her dress, called him in the middle of the night to complain that she couldn't decide between two shades of blue, but loving every moment of it, joy infusing every choice.

He imagined sometimes—often—what it would be like seeing Bridget in a veil and gown, breathless anticipation as she came to join him at the altar. He had especially done so that day, when Natasha had informed him that she had chosen a pale cream pantsuit, and had showed him a photo she had found of her intended outfit. "No lace trim, though," Natasha had said with obvious distaste. "I can't think of anything I'd want less."

…

"So, I hear congratulations are in order."

Aside from work contact for professional reasons, Mark didn't speak much with his colleagues from London. The exception to that was with Jeremy, who would, unprompted, occasionally drop titbits of information about Bridget, which he welcomed.

"Thank you," Mark said.

"Have to say, we're all very surprised here in chambers," said Jeremy with a chuckle. "You seemed so head-over-heels for Bridget—and she for you, though God knows why, ha, ha—and then boom, everything's off, and you head to the States. Ah well. At least she's moved on."

Jeremy dropped that little nugget as if it were nothing. "Moved on?" he asked, trying to be as casual as possible.

Unfortunately, at that moment, one of his children took that moment to apparently assault him; Jeremy let out a guttural cry before admonishing, "Harry! None of that when Daddy's on the telephone!" Breathlessly, he said to Mark, "Look, old chap, have to go. The boys are awfully rambunctious and Mags is out. Talk soon. Cheers."

"Bye," he said to a dial tone before he put the phone back on its cradle, leaving him to wonder what on earth Jeremy had meant. He couldn't ask; he did not want anyone to know he was wondering, especially Bridget. He couldn't stop wondering. Couldn't stop thinking about it. Had she 'moved on' with Daniel? How serious was it?

The way it occupied his thoughts was borderline ridiculous. He had no claim to the higher moral ground when he was the one who had ended it.

…

 **December**

As Mark wandered from person to person, shaking hands and accepting the congratulations of the day, he realised with some regret that the whole reception reminded him of a drinks party, any number of intolerable affairs he had attended in the course of his professional career. Certainly, many of the same people were here today, at least those he knew in California. Natasha—or her planner—had done a wonderful job arranging for the venue, the catering, the bar.

Like those drinks parties, though… deep down inside, he found himself wishing he could just go home.

They had not planned a honeymoon—they were too busy to take that kind of time off for the sake of a sentimental tradition—and had hardly planned a thing for the wedding night itself save for a bottle of champagne to toast in private in the hotel's bridal suite. The champagne was very high quality, though they were unable to finish the bottle; the complimentary chocolate-covered berries sat uneaten. Sex was over quickly, and he found himself left to his thoughts as she did her evening ablutions. He thought of how he and Bridget might have had the whole bottle. Might have relished in the strawberries.

When she returned to the bed, he was feigning sleep. He could tell by the way her breathing changed that she was soon asleep; it had been a long, tiring day. For Mark, though, actual sleep was quite elusive.

This was life now; no going back. He accepted it. But he also could not help wondering how Bridget would react to the news. What she would think of him when she learned. He could not bear to think what her opinion was of him now.

Perhaps for the best, though. Easier to move forward this way.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Long Way Home**

By S. Faith, © 2017

Words: 23,353  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

 **October, four years later**

Mark had never intended to keep secrets.

It was just something that had happened while browsing the internet on his work laptop, reading news from back in the UK. He'd spotted a link to a video that grabbed his attention. And when he'd clicked on it to watch the video, though the window was small, he was stunned to see Bridget presenting on a news segment.

By his reckoning, while he'd thought of her often, he hadn't seen her in about three years at this point. It had surprised him how much seeing her again made his heart lurch. She'd looked well; her hair was a little longer, and she looked like she had lost a little weight, something he knew was a goal of hers, and something about which he had often told her to stop worrying. He'd smiled a little as the clip concluded.

His life was good, stable; work was satisfying; his marital partnership with Natasha ran like a well-oiled machine.

But.

Seeing Bridget again, seeing her smile, hearing her voice… it had all stirred bittersweet feelings within him. Closing the laptop, he pinched the corners of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

"Ready?"

He looked up. Natasha, meeting him here to go to lunch. She furrowed her brow in such a way that made him wonder exactly how his face was betraying him. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he said, rising to his feet. "Shall we?"

He couldn't stop thinking of the video clip, though, in subsequent days to follow. Out of curiosity, he went back to the website to find the clip again, and was astounded to find they had added two more. He promptly watched them. One was a more serious news presenting; the other was more light-hearted, leaving Bridget in gales a laughter. As he watched, that aching melancholy swelled in his soul. He hadn't quite realised how much he'd missed her.

He continued to visit the website; they released roughly one to two new videos a week. He didn't mention the videos to Natasha, though. Something told him she would not understand.

He didn't really think of them as a secret, though. Not until she found him watching them.

"What's this, then? Is that _Bridget_?"

He hadn't expected Natasha out of the shower already, especially since the water was still running; he had opened up his laptop and gone to see if any new videos had been posted. There had. He was watching when she came in behind him, stealthy as a cat. Apparently she had started up the water, but had not yet gotten in. She stood there in her robe, her hair still perfectly dry.

He couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound completely untrue. He tried, anyway. "Yes. I just… came across it."

She just stared at him in disbelief, looking increasingly angry. "You _totally by chance_ came across a video of your former fiancée in the five minutes it's been since I said I was going into the shower?" she asked, fury infusing her voice. "Do you realise how _ridiculous_ that sounds?"

He did, in fact. "Look, there's nothing underhanded or devious about it. I saw them, and… I admit a curiosity to seeing how she was. I just didn't think you would understand if I watched them."

"Well, you were right, there," she said. Then she asked, "Them? When did you come across them?"

"Pardon?"

"You said you came across _them_. Multiple videos, I would guess you meant. When?"

 _Two and a half months ago_ , he thought immediately, but said, "I… I don't remember. A few weeks ago, maybe."

"You're such a terrible liar," she said, pursing her lips. "I thought you'd put it behind you. I didn't think I'd ever have to spare a thought for that woman again. Yet, here she is, looming up like the ghost of Christmas fucking past into your life again. And therefore, into mine."

He had not, in the almost four years since they'd been married, ever heard her speak with such anger. He hadn't heard her say 'fuck' in years.

"She's doing nothing of the sort," he said. "I watched a handful of videos, feeling a little nostalgic. I'm sorry. I never meant to—"

"You never meant for me to _find out_ ," she interrupted. "Look, I realise that our marriage is more of an _arrangement_ than the culmination of a fairy tale romance, but I do at least expect you to be a _little_ bit loyal to it."

"Hey, I have done _nothing_ wrong," Mark said, his voice strong and clear. "I watched a few videos of someone from my past. I don't have a secret, second family on the side. I'm not sleeping around."

She snorted a laugh. "As if you could," she said.

He clenched his jaw; he had recently been experiencing performance issues. " _That_ was uncalled for."

She lifted her chin, looking to the ceiling as if for divine guidance, then exhaled protractedly. "You're right. I'm sorry," she said, her voice decidedly calmer. "I didn't mean to be so harsh. It just… it gets to me."

"But why?"

Her gaze was piercing, as if willing him to understand. "I'm going to go get in the shower now," she said quietly. "If, in future, you could kindly stop watching internet videos of your ex-lover, I would appreciate that enormously." With that, she turned and left the room.

He could have followed to continue the conversation, but he thought discretion was the better part of valour, and let her go to the shower.

He couldn't stop wondering, though. He had expected that she wouldn't like him watching the videos, but her reaction to it seemed a bit disproportionate. It seemed silly to think of Natasha as the jealous type, since, as she had herself said, their marriage was not based on romance. She had never been romantically inclined. She had always just gone for what was most advantageous for her. That was not a judgment; it was just fact.

Maybe it was just the old rivalry from years ago rearing its head. It just made so little sense to him.

…

 **Early December**

" _Jesus_ , Mark, get your head out of the clouds and join the real world."

The conversation had started out benign enough; a casual lunch with friends and colleagues, at which the conversation had turned to political discussion about taxes. Mark had voiced an opinion that would have, at one time, been wholly at odds with his Tory leanings, in advocating for the wealthy to pay their fair percentage in taxes, to give back what they'd gotten, to serve as the foundation for a civilised society.

Natasha, however, disagreed, and did not have any qualms about telling him in public. Her snappish tone took him by surprise and served to quiet him for the remainder of the group lunch, leaving him to reflect on her reaction, and making him realise that it hadn't been the first time she'd jumped down his throat in recent days. Had she always been so argumentative, and he hadn't noticed? Or—

Then he realised that her antagonistic attitude had never really waned since she'd discovered him watching the video of Bridget online. He had dared to voice an opinion with which she disagreed, especially one that they both knew had been influenced by Bridget, and Natasha was going to rake him over the coals for it at every opportunity.

She sniped at him over his entrée, at his choice of wine. Corrected him brusquely when he misquoted the year of the Dickenson legal decision. He felt undermined and belittled at every turn. By the time their group lunch ended, he was livid, and no longer talking to her lest he utterly lose his temper.

They did not speak during the entire drive back to their flat. He didn't say anything until he closed the door behind them. He met her gaze, didn't look away.

"You can stop treating me like your whipping boy," he said quietly, "or this arrangement is going to have to end."

"If this arrangement ends," she said, equally quietly, "I'm not going to make it easy for you."

He didn't like blackmail, and that is exactly what this sounded like to him.

"You are clearly no longer happy," he said. "Why exactly would you want to prolong it?"

"This was never about being _happy_ , Mark," she said. "It was about mutual respect and companionship, and an understanding that the past was the past. A firm foundation and a strong partnership of equals. Knowing you're still, I don't know, _pining_ for that _girl_ , someone who is clearly beneath you in every way… you've thrown the balance off. You don't respect yourself, let alone me. I'm angry and frankly, I feel deceived."

"Do you even hear yourself?" he asked, prickling in offense. "You're making a lot of assumptions. I've already explained that having basic human caring and concern for an ex is not insurmountable."

"You're deluding yourself if you really think it's just 'basic human caring and concern' that you feel, Mark. If you think _I'd_ believe that for a second, then you have severely misjudged me."

They stood there, locked at an apparent impasse, until she broke the gaze and stormed away to the bedroom, slamming shut the door.

He turned on his heel and went to the windows to gaze out onto San Francisco. It was a view he had come to love in this, his adopted city. The longer he stood there admiring the view, the more he realised that while the view brought him pleasure, he was not happy. Had not been happy for some time.

It was true that he had not entered into this marriage with any thought but for stability and companionship. He had only done this to set a course for a comfortable future with someone he could respect and admire.

Without at least a little happiness in this setup, though… it was proving intolerable.

 _Why indeed, Mark, would you want to prolong this?_

If he didn't have this arrangement, what would he have? Starting over at the age of 49 seemed an insurmountable task. There was also the dawning realisation that he might soon be past the point of no return if he ever hoped to have a child. While sex with Natasha had only been for the release (they were compatible in that way, at least mostly), children had never been part of the bargain. He realised with a start that staying in the marriage, fatherhood would never happen. Out of this marriage, it might.

It might have been a slim chance, but it was better than none, even if he had no prospective partners. The one woman with whom he'd most want to have a child probably had long since moved on. If he had not asked his mother long ago not to talk to him about Bridget, he might have actually known.

He sighed and leaned forward. He would have to end it. There was no other way.

…

 **Early June**

Natasha had not been kidding when she said she wouldn't make it easy for him. Fortunately, he had a better lawyer than she did, and that lawyer was easily able to pull her in line, particularly as he felt a sudden, urgent impetus to get back home, to London. Natasha still managed to make it as difficult as she could.

And if she did everything she could to make it difficult, he made it exceptionally easy. He didn't let her take advantage of him by any means, but he only really wanted the things he'd brought into the marriage. He didn't really care about the rest; she could keep it.

Once he was out of their shared flat, once he had no companionship every night, he remembered what it was like to be so alone. He thought not of missing Natasha, but missing Bridget; how he would come home from work with a funny anecdote on the tip of his tongue, impatient to tell her the story, impatient to make her smile or laugh. How much he missed it, and how much he wanted it again.

He was free from Natasha, though. He _felt_ free. He had hope, even if it was a cautious one.

When Mark stepped off the plane at Heathrow, stepped into the terminal, he took in a deep breath—convinced that the air in England was reviving his spirit—before making his way to Arrivals by way of Customs. His eyes flitted about the broad expanse of Arrivals, hoping irrationally that he might see a flash of blonde hair, a sign greeting him by name with that oddly formal way she often had: MARK DARCY.

He did, however, see the driver holding a sign that simply had his last name on it, and after gathering his luggage, they began the drive to his home. Never had he been so grateful that the housing market was in a slump; it had been less of a pain to just rent out his Holland Park house rather than sell it. Now the house awaited his return. He felt slightly nervous and unsettled for reasons he could not quite pin down.

He was pleasantly surprised to see his parents waiting there to greet him. His relationship with his mother had survived his marriage to Natasha, and they had continued to speak regularly, though Mark had been rather quiet since divorce proceedings had begun. They looked pleased to see him. Mark, though, decided to break the ice.

"I know, I know. 'I told you so,'" Mark said with a smile.

Elaine chuckled, then smiled and reached to embrace him. "Listen to your mother in future, all right?" she teased back. "It is so good to have you back. You're looking well, if a bit thin… you're all right?"

He nodded. "Everything is finalised," he said.

"That's good," she said. "Now we never have to speak of it, or her, again."

This made Mark laugh.

"Glad to have you home again, m'boy," said his father, nursing a tumbler of scotch. "Shall I pour you a stiff one?"

His body had no idea what time it was anymore—but he realised it was probably close to dinner. "Yes, thank you," he said.

"I've put a shepherd's pie in the oven downstairs," said Elaine; as she did Mark caught the faintest whiff of the delicious dish, and his mouth began to water. "And I've made sure that everything's clean and ready for you in your room and office."

"You didn't really have to do that," Mark said.

She shrugged, winking then smiling almost playfully. "I didn't," she said. "I paid someone _else_ to do it."

After the delicious, filling dinner of shepherd's pie and one tumbler more of scotch than he should have had, he bid his parents good night and saw them off to the guest room they'd claimed. Soon enough, he found himself back in the master bedroom— _his_ bedroom—for the first time in five years. He felt a disconnect; everything about the room was familiar, yet felt distant and detached. Seeing it again naturally dredged up old memories, good and bad. Nights spent here with Bridget. Nights alone, staying connected to her by telephone. Nights alone after he had foolishly ended the engagement and severed their connection completely.

He stood under the shower for far longer than he should have, but the heat and pressure penetrating into every aching muscle was just what he needed after an intercontinental flight. He stepped out of the shower, stopping long enough to dry off and clean his teeth before slipping between the crisp, clean sheets.

He was in a deep and dreamless sleep within a matter of minutes, waking in practically the same position to the sun streaming into the room what felt far too soon.

Still somewhat groggy but determined to adjust to the time difference before the work week, he made his way down to the kitchen and made a coffee. He'd gotten so used to the electric coffee pot in California that he had to search the mental file cabinets for prepping a French press again. The resulting coffee was good if very strong, which felt all too appropriate given the stupor in which he was operating.

His mother—or whomever she had hired—had made sure to stock the kitchen with an assortment of breakfast choices. He was drawn that morning to something heartier than a pastry, and set about to making eggs, sausage and toast.

"That smells rather delicious, Mark," said his father. "Looks like you haven't forgotten to cook while you've been gone. Did you make enough for me?"

"Now, now, Malcolm," said Elaine. "It's oatmeal for you, and you know it."

"Is coffee off limits?" asked Mark. "It's a bit strong if you want some, but you're welcome to it."

The elder Darcys stayed until after breakfast, then said their goodbyes and headed out to make the long drive back home. Back to Grafton Underwood.

The village name sent a pang through his heart. He hadn't thought for a long time about the place where he'd grown up, where Bridget had also grown up, where her parents also lived. He wondered if his mother would tell Pam Jones that he was back. That he was divorced, again. He didn't know if he hoped she would, or hoped she wouldn't.

He still didn't know, after all of this time, whether she was with someone new, someone like Daniel, anyone at all. He braced himself for the worst possible news—married to another, one or two children.

…

"Well. Look who's showing his face around here again."

The familiar, grinning face of his long-time friend and colleague, Jeremy, who clapped Mark on the shoulder in a convivial way. Jeremy was jesting, of course; Mark had already arranged to start taking cases in chambers upon his arrival.

Mark couldn't help grinning in return.

"So you're home? Same house? Good flight? All settled in again?"

"Yes," he said, to answer all four questions.

"Come on, got things all set up for you," he said. "You're lucky there was an office free, or else you'd have to bunk up with me."

Mark was thrust into the world of legal discourse with a full roster of cases almost immediately. He was happy to be so busy. It took his mind off of everything else—especially took his mind off of everyone who learnt he had divorced trying to set him up with the single women they knew.

A couple of weeks into it, Jeremy came to him with a sudden, seemingly urgent request.

"Mark. Are you free on the weekend?"

"Foreign Office meeting. Why do you ask?"

"Christening this weekend for our latest sprog. Can't find anyone to step in for godfather. We've already had all our friends step in for godparents and none want to do it again."

Mark thought about it for a moment. None of the friends who had been godparents before wanted to do it again. Bridget had done it before. If he stepped in to do this little favour for Jeremy, surely he could do it with little risk of running into Bridget.

"Sure," Mark said. "Tell me when and where."

Given the information, Mark figured it would be a bit hectic getting from the meeting in Westminster to the remote country parish where the christening was being held, but he'd manage it, even if he had to call in a few favours with the foreign secretary.

 **Saturday, 24 June**

Mark Darcy was not going to get to the church in time; that much was certain. His prospective departure time had come and gone, and the meeting had continued unabated for forty-five more minutes until finally adjourning. He stood in the hallway just outside the meeting room, trying and failing to get signal on his mobile phone so that he could call Jeremy.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath.

"Now that's not language I hear every day from Mark Darcy," said an amused voice from beside him. Mark glanced over to see Randall Barton-Smith, with whom he had attended school at Eton. His presence at the meeting that day had surprised Mark, though it shouldn't have, as he was an MP for a typically Conservative constituency. "What's going on?"

"I'm mean to be godfather at a christening that's due to start in…" He looked to his watch and cringed. "…less time than I now have to get there, and I can't get through to the father to let him know there's no way I can make it."

"Where do you need to be?" Randall asked, looking genuinely concerned.

Mark gave him the town's and church's name in the Cotswolds.

"Well familiar with it." Randall grinned, then said, "I could drop you there on my way home. I've got a helicopter on the pad on the roof."

Mark did his best not to let his mouth drop open. "I'm sorry, did you say… a helicopter?"

Randall nodded. "Since I've got a meeting back home with constituents this evening, and I didn't want to make the long drive, and risk getting in a jam…"

"If you're sure, I'd be enormously grateful, thank you."

"I wouldn't ask if I weren't sure," Randall said with a grin. "Let's get going."

Travel by copter was loud and windy, but it cut the travel time down immensely; before he knew it the copter hovering over a field just outside of the churchyard, garnering a small crowd of onlookers. Mark removed his headset and jumped down onto the ground, rotor blades chopping the air over his head.

"Thank you!" Mark shouted to Randall, then ducked down and ran towards the church as the helicopter lifted up into the air again.

As Mark got to the door of the church, he was met by Jeremy. "What a way to make an entrance!" he said. "I was beginning to wonder if either of you'd make it. Come on, we're about to start."

He made his way with Jeremy to the front where the baptismal font was, noticing with somewhat of a racing heart Jeremy's wife Magda… but no Bridget. He didn't know whether to be happy, or sad.

Mark's contemplations were, however, interrupted by the vicar booming out: "Well! Perhaps now we can make a start!"

He said something more, but Mark didn't hear it, because he realised the vicar had spoken at the arrival of the godmother. Bridget.

She came striding down the aisle, her hair pinned up off of her face, but otherwise long enough to rest on her shoulders; she looked thinner than he remembered, and she was wearing a slightly familiar peach-coloured dress that skimmed past her knees and high heels that made her legs look amazing. In an instant, though, she was standing next to him, and Magda was thrusting the baby into her arms. Mark tried to keep his thoughts on task, sparing one last quick look at her before things began.

The ceremony itself went quickly, and his role was easy enough to do following her lead. The minute everything was done, though, after they all went to the party, he felt the urge to have a very stiff drink. He'd had a moment of hoping to see her, disappointment when he had not, but then when she really had appeared… would he have really turned it down if he'd known she had accepted? Had he wilfully misunderstood Jeremy when he said they couldn't find anyone who hadn't already done it? Or had he been telling himself a useful lie because secretly he had hoped to see her again?

He quickly realised his misstep, though; it seemed that she had the same idea as he had, and she was beside him at the bar, waiting for a drink. He decided to break the ice, though he didn't turn to face her, and she didn't turn to face him.

"Hello," Mark said, risking a glance.

"Hello," she said in return, her expression neutral.

"How are you?"

When she responded, her voice seemed really strange, almost robotic: "I am very well, thank you. How are you?"

"I am fine," he said, nearly matching her tone.

"So am I," she said.

"Good."

"Yes," she said.

"Good," he said again, though he had no idea why he'd done so.

"Yes."

"Well," he said. "Goodbye then."

"Yes, goodbye, then."

He turned to a barman, and she to another, and as she escalated her white wine order into a larger glass, he ordered a triple vodka martini with a whisky chaser for himself. He was very much aware of her behind him as he waited for their respective orders, even more so as the assembled group of obviously drunken fathers started in on him, wondering how he was, how on earth he had come to arrive in a helicopter.

"Well, I was actually, um, in a fairly important Foreign Office meeting," Mark responded.

Cosmo, with his usual lack of tact, bellowed out, "How's single life treating you, then, Darcy?"

Before he had a chance to respond, someone else asked, "Dark horse, aren't you? Got a new totty yet?"

Repulsed at the use of the word 'totty,' Mark shot back, "Well, I'm hardly—"

"What's the matter with you, you miserable old sod?" asked someone whose name he could not remember, and whose age was obviously decades younger than his own. "Johnny Forrester was barely out of the divorce court before he was inundated with totties. Smothered in them. Out every night."

Johnny Forrester, who was a junior partner, was barely thirty. "Yes, I assume you have no idea of the reality of being single at my stage in life. Everywhere you turn, someone's trying to push one at some deluded woman-of-a-certain-age, looking for a knight on a charger to solve all their problems: financial, physical and otherwise. Anyway, must be going." He grabbed his martini, his whisky. "Yup. Must be off."

Mark glanced around, and saw that Bridget had stepped away. He knocked back his martini in one long sip, then had the whisky. He felt relief, that perhaps that she hadn't heard that prime example of verbal diarrhoea spew from his mouth. He had had some idea briefly that perhaps Jeremy had thought this was a funny idea for a setup between the two; he certainly did not believe that Bridget was in any way a knowing participant, and his little speech surely made it seem like he did.

The drunken dads were still at it as he spotted Magda and Bridget walking together, heading outside; Bridget held her mobile in her hand.

"What about Bridget? Never understood why those two didn't get sprogged up," said one.

"They were together long enough," said another.

"Was she just too old or did he just not have the soldiers?"

That was it. He couldn't take it anymore. He stood and strode away and into the garden.

This proved to be something of a mistake, though, because that's where Magda and Bridget had gone; they were not in conversation nor in solitude, but rather, they were overseeing a group of boys fighting over some hand-held video games, and some smaller children who seemed to be crying for no reason. It was utter chaos, with Magda lunging and trying to take away the games, and the children being slippery little weasels and evading her.

"Quiet!" Mark roared. He recognised at least two of them as children of the partners. "Potter! Roebuck! Stop! Stand in line!"

The older children froze and, startled, stopped what they were doing and did as told.

"Right," he said. He strode in front of them, dressing them down as if he were reading out a list of charges at court. "Disgraceful behaviour. Act like men. Ten times round the lake, all of you." He then told them that the first one back would get to play a game for ten minutes. Dutifully, they all ran off to do as told without questioning… much to his surprise.

"Right," Mark said. "Jolly good." He then headed back into the hotel.

…

The boys found him upon their return; as promised, he gave the winner the game, and he played the game (with his friends in audience) for the ten minutes allotted, then surrendered them after that. He went in search of Magda and Jeremy to return the hardware, and found them in an extreme state of inebriation, along with an equally inebriated Bridget.

"Bloody electronics," slurred Magda. "Bloody Zac and his bloody friends."

"Never have happened if we'd sent him to public school," offered Jeremy.

"Boarding school? He's seven years old, you bastard," Magda said.

"Yurr," said Bridget, also slurring her words. "That's just cruel. Is bloody barbaric."

"I went at seven," Mark said, feeling defensive.

"Yurr, and look what happened to you," Magda snapped back.

At this, Bridget got up and wandered away unsteadily, as he felt the sting of Magda's insult. He watched Bridget walk away, and as she disappeared around the corner of a hedge, he decided after a few moments to follow, worried that she might actually fall into the lake.

By the time he caught her up, she had taken a seat on the stone bench at the lakeside.

"So? Cruel, eh?" he asked her as he drew nearer.

"Yes, cruel abandonment," she replied, turning her gaze to meet his.

"You don't think they'd be better off with a bit of discipline, backbone, competition?"

"Well it's all very well if you're a tall alpha male and good at everything," she said, rambling a little; did she really think of him as an alpha male? Did she really think his time at school had been a breeze? "But what about the chubby ones, or the confused ones, or the nutty ones? Who do they have to come home to in the evening who thinks they're special…"

She faded off as Mark sat on the bench beside her.

"… and loves them," he finished straightforwardly, "just as they are?"

She looked down to where her hands rested on her lap.

He realised then that something was caught in her hair. "You have a train in your hair."

"I am aware of that," she said quietly.

He reached out, pulling the train out with a single motion. She didn't react, so he must not have yanked any hair out that hurt.

"Anything else in there?" he said, teasing a little, reaching up, brushing fingers in her hair. "What's this… cake?"

She didn't say anything, just looked to him again.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" he said tenderly.

"Yes," she said. "Who are you again?"

"No idea."

"Me neither," she said.

Pulling out one of her father's old jokes, he said, "I've known you for forty years and I've completely forgotten your name." She smiled, then laughed; so did he.

God, it had been a long time. But when he leaned forward, she leaned into him, and just like that they were kissing; his arm came round her waist and he pulled her close to him, one hand roaming over her back, the other on her leg, the heat of her skin burning him through her dress. The old fire, leaping back to life. He was ravenous. He had missed kissing her so much. Missed holding her. Missed touching her. And he did not want to stop.

She drew away, though, meeting his eyes with hers; they sparkled in the moonlight. She took hold of his hand, then stood, tugging his hand to urge him to stand as she took a step back. She let go, took another step back, then another. It was clear to him what it meant.

 _Come with me. I want more of this. I want you._

He gave himself a moment to compose himself, watching her for a moment then following her back into the hotel. He watched as she went up the stairs; he could see her waiting at the top for him. He gave it a moment before he ascended the staircase; he did not want to make it too obvious that they were going upstairs to sleep together. Once upstairs, he slipped his hand into hers and led her forward into his room.

As soon as the door closed behind them, she was in his embrace. Her arms went around his neck; his arms, around her waist. He pulled her up against him, pressing his hands into the familiar curve of her heavenly backside, grasping gently as they kissed over and over again until there was no telling when one kiss ended and the next began. Time seemed to stretch out into infinity.

It was the most elated he'd felt in ages.

…

 **Sunday, 25 June**

The morning light began to filter through into the room, rousing Mark from sleep, rousing him from the best dream he'd had in years. Just then, beside him, she shifted in her sleep, and the feel of her skin moving against his reminded him that the night before had been no dream; it all came rushing back to him in full, glorious detail. He ran his hand over her arm and her hip. This elicited a low, soft sound from deep in her throat, and she rolled over to look at him, blinking blearily, smiling a little.

"Morning," he said throatily, lifting his fingers to brush hair from her face.

"Mm. Morning," she said, tracing a finger along the lines of his face. He lowered himself to kiss her but she pulled back. He knew the old objection—morning breath—so instead he moved to nuzzle into her throat. She made a soft sound, but then she began to giggle.

"Your stomach is growling," she said. "I'm hungry too. Call for something?"

Reluctantly he stopped and then drew away. "I can guess what it is you want," he said.

"Well, yes, that," she said, "but before that, maybe some coffee, some pastry…"

To his annoyance, he was not able to reach room service. He remembered when Jeremy had given him the room key that there was a breakfast buffet, so he pushed back the bed covers, and began to get dressed. At her confused look, he explained, "I'll go grab us something from the buffet." As he finished with the buttons, he looked down at her amongst the sheets. "Don't you dare move." He slipped into his jacket then was gone.

The moment he stepped out of the door, he heard a voice call out to him. It was Jeremy.

"So, hey, did you have Bridget stay over last night?" he said.

He brought his brows together. What on earth was it to him? "Yes."

"Mark, mate," he said, seeming to suddenly be channelling his wife, "It's wrong of you to go messing around with her at this point in her life unless you plan on making it a permanent thing."

This struck a raw nerve with him. "Pardon?"

"Are you ready to be a constant in her life? Can you be a _husband_ to her?"

Husband? He wasn't thinking of anything like marriage. He'd only just been divorced. "I don't think it's really any of your business," he snapped. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going for breakfast."

He poured orange juice and coffee, got a couple of chocolate croissant, all the while lost in thought. What if Jeremy was right? Should he be 'messing around' with Bridget if he had no idea what his intentions were going to be in the long run? And he didn't know the answer to that question. He hadn't had any sort deep emotional connection with Natasha, but their split had not been at all amicable, and he was still rebounding from the divorce. It wasn't fair to set expectations that he could not possibly fulfil. One blissful evening did not undo the years of difficulties they'd had, would not magically change the things about her that had driven him out of his mind. He loved her—he had never really stopped—but he was not exactly in a good position to start a full-blown relationship again.

The closer he got to the room, the more he realised that Jeremy was right, as much as he did not want to admit it. He looked down to the tray, then let himself in.

Bridget had remained as he had left her, posing a little sexily as she laid there in her chemise, smiling beatifically up at him.

"Mmmm," she purred. "Thank you, do come back in."

However, after he set the tray down, he only stood there, looking down at her.

"What's the matter?" she asked, sitting up.

He began to pace. "I've made a mistake," he said at last.

He watched as the colour drained out of her face.

"I wasn't thinking," he explained. "I was carried away with emotion, with the joy of seeing you again. I had way too much to drink. We both did. But we cannot proceed."

"'Proceed?'" she asked sceptically. "That's a funny way to describe shagging."

"Bridget." Suddenly aware of his own height, and the clothing inequity, he sat beside her on the bed. "I can't do this. I'm newly divorced. I am not in a fit emotional state to take on a relationship at this point in your life."

"But I didn't ask you for that," she said.

"I realise," he said. "But the question is undoubtedly there, whether it is verbalised or not. At your age, I simply… it would be wrong of me…" He let out a long breath. "I don't want to use up any more of your childbearing years."

She stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief, then pushed the covers back, found and put her dress back on, quickly, awkwardly.

"Bridget."

"Mark," she said sharply, "you've said enough."

She took a long draw off of the coffee he'd brought for her, then stepped into her shoes, and grabbed her clutch purse and one of the chocolate croissants. After looking at him for some moments in a totally uncomfortable silence, she opened the door and left the room.

He knew now that he had said the wrong thing, that he had implied he wanted nothing to do with her, when he only meant that he didn't want her to wait around for him to be ready. The damage, though, was done.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Long Way Home**

By S. Faith, © 2017

Words: 23,353  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

 **Sunday, 15 October**

 _I would like to see you._

This surprising text arrived on his phone as he worked in his home office, and he had to read it twice to make sure he hadn't imagined it. Mark had not thought about Bridget much since she had left him in his room in the hotel back in June—at least, he had tried not to think of her, because if he did, he had trouble _not_ thinking of her.

He responded right away.

 _Absolutely. I'm home, Holland Park Avenue, but I have a dinner to go to later. Come over._

He tried to get back to work but found himself unable to focus. What had prompted Bridget to reach out to him, to want to come over, particularly when their parting had been so inelegant? A short time later, he heard the front doorbell go off, and said into the intercom, which was tied to his phone, "Hello?"

No answer.

He was expecting no one else, so he said after some seconds, "Bridget, are you actually still there, or have you rung the doorbell and run away?"

"I'm here."

After a few seconds, he opened the door to see her standing there in her autumn coat pulled tightly around her. "Come in," he said, then led her down to the kitchen; he thought maybe he could offer a drink of some kind.

"So," Mark said, striving for casualness. "How's life treating you? Work good?"

"Yes," she said. "How's yours? Work, I mean."

"Oh, good," he began, then amended with a half-smile, "well… shit, actually." He explained the case he had been working on, but could tell that the details were making her eyes glaze over.

"Ah," she said, her gaze turning toward the back garden.

He went on about work in what must have been a futile attempt to fill the silence until she said, "Excuse me."

"Yes?"

She didn't say anything right away. "The garden looks lovely."

"Thank you," Mark said, slightly perplexed, but keeping up small talk; "Of course, it's a devil to keep up with the leaves."

"Yes, it must be."

"Yes."

"Yup… Mark?"

"Yes, Bridget?"

She hesitated again, fidgeting a bit with the button on her coat. "Is that a conker tree?"

"Yes, it is a conker tree, and that one's a magnolia and…" he began, trailing off, watching her, wondering what on earth had brought her here with such urgency but not so urgent that she could be casually cross-examining him about his garden. Why had she come? Why was she stalling?

"Oh, and what is that one?"

He had come to the end of his patience, and said curtly, "Bridget!"

She startled, turning to him, and blurted out, "I'm pregnant."

He felt a little dizzy, hardly remembered the next few moments; he asked her how far along she was, and she told him sixteen weeks, which would have put conception around the weekend of the Christening. He knew what this meant. She would hardly be coming like this to tell him of a pregnancy, otherwise.

"Do you want to feel the bump?" she asked, undoing her coat button at last.

He placed his palm against her stomach, felt the slight protrusion through her clothes, believing the news to be real at last. He then took his hand away.

"Excuse me."

He found himself upstairs in his office, pacing the floor, his mind in a whirl. The feelings overwhelming him now were polar opposite to what they had been then at the hotel: pure joy, happiness, elation. Any doubt he'd had melted away the instant he'd placed his hand against her stomach. He was more certain than anything in the world that he wanted to be a dad. And that he wanted to be with Bridget.

He thought, too, of his own childhood, of the conversation back at the party with Magda and Jeremy, about boarding school and how cruel it had been to subject a tender young boy to it—had he been reluctant to become a father knowing he could consign his own children to the misery he had suffered in childhood? Could raising his child really be that different?

With Bridget, he believed it could.

He scaled down the stairs, burst back into the kitchen. She looked nervous; in retrospect, he realised it had been terrible of him to leave the room like he had, so he said to her, "This is the single most wonderful piece of information I have ever been given in my entire life." He then strode to her, took her in his arms, melting into her, feeling her melt into him. "It's… I feel almost as if clouds are dispersing." He drew away to look into her blue eyes, feeling suddenly quite emotional. "When one's own childhood has been… when one has somehow…." He cleared his throat. "I never found it possible to believe that love could translate into a home life. That one could create a home we could bring a child into, that was somehow different—"' He felt his throat close with emotion. "—different from one's own."

This time she threw her arms around him to hug and console him; he felt her tender fingers stroking his hair.

"And now," he said, pushing away to look at her again, smiling fully, "in a moment of… unadulterated passion, the decision has been made for us. And I'm the happiest man alive."

She smiled too, and he thought he might kiss her, but the moment was ruined by a knock at the door. He knew his housekeeper, Fatima, would answer it, so he didn't worry much about it, at least until he heard her say that his car was here.

Fuck.

"Oh my goodness. I completely forgot. I have a Law Society dinner…"

"No, Mark, it's fine," she said gently. "You already said you had a dinner."

"But my car can…" he began, then remembering her quip about his car and driver all those years ago ('What, all on its own?'), he amended, " _we_ can drop you off."

She smiled. "I've got my new car, that's fine."

"Tomorrow, we'll meet tomorrow night?"

"Yes."

…

 **Monday, 16 October**

Mark was going to be a father, and he was going to do it right.

He cancelled all of his meetings for the next day—none were crucial, anyway—and went on a wild shopping spree for baby essentials to give to her when she came over that night. He also went up into the attic and pulled down his old car set. He put the nappies in the fridge like he thought he'd once heard was the right thing to do. He made plans in his head, how they could make the room a playroom for the baby, how Bridget and the baby could move into the house, how they could be a happy family. Together at last.

He was excited, more excited than he ever thought he could be.

And then she said five words that changed everything, left him reeling.

"I slept with Daniel Cleaver."

For a split second, he thought he'd misheard, but the expression on her face—waiting for his reaction to his former friend's name—told him he had not. He asked, "The same _day_?"

She explained how it had come to be. How she'd seen Daniel a few days later and he'd made her feel young again. He realised he was to blame for leaving her the way he did, reminding her that her childbearing years would be coming to a close soon.

He started to ask questions that he didn't really have an interest in hearing the answer to: did she use a condom? He went to the cupboards and began to open and close them in an effort to do something, anything, including a cupboard full of papers that he tried in vain to stuff back in. And then he found the scotch. Poured himself a shot.

"Can you find out?" he asked. "I mean technically the paternity, who the… the… _father_ is?" He knocked back the drink in one gulp.

"Not without risking the baby."

"But surely…"

"I know. But I'm not going to risk it. Giant needle thing. Horrible."

Mark began to pace again. "Right, right, of course. I see now. That would explain why, when we did take the occasional chance…" He thought back to the night of the Christening, to the callous, off-handed thing that one of the drunken fathers had said: _"Was she just too old or did he just not have the soldiers?"_

Mark turned to her, walls of defence up again.

"I expect you'll be wanting to get an early night."

"Mark, don't." He saw the quaver in her lip. "She could be _our_ baby. There's a fifty per cent chance, at least."

A rime of ice formed around his heart.

"It's kind of you to say."

"It just takes a moment," she explained, "an impulse, one bad decision."

He thought she must have meant Daniel. "Yes, I know. I see it every day of my professional life: tragic. Life turns on a sixpence." He met her gaze. "But I don't want that in my personal life, I'm afraid."

"I'm so, so sorry," she said.

"It's life. One must play with the cards one is dealt. Jolly good."

She stared at him for a moment, then lowered her gaze, and turned to leave. He followed her out, walked her to her car to see her safely off; neither said another word.

He then watched her drive away.

As he returned to the house, he heard his telephone ringing. The display indicated it was his mother. He sighed. He'd called her the previous night in his excitement and left a message, but now he had no news he wanted to share. He couldn't very well ignore her call, though.

"Mother, hello," he said.

"So, what were you calling about?"

"I…" he began, struggling for something to tell her. "…have taken a job in North Africa."

"Oh, Mark, why?" she lamented. "You've only just moved back to London!"

"Oh, no, sorry; not permanently," he said. "I've taken a case in that's taking me to the Maghreb. Well. Frederick and me." His former and current assistant. Bridget had taken to calling him "Freddo," and "Freddo" had let her get away with it. Mark had been sorry to lose Frederick's services when Mark went to America—and Mark was grateful to be able to bring him back on board upon his return.

"Don't scare me like that," she said, chuckling a little. "So you called me to tell me that? When will you be back?"

"Shouldn't be more than a week, I should think," Mark said.

"Oh, good," she said. "I'm asking, you know, because there's a rather special occasion oncoming."

Mark felt a creeping sense of déjà vu. "What is that?"

"In the spring, the Queen herself is coming to Grafton Underwood. And at the end of the month, on the 28th, we're rehearsing with representatives of Her Majesty. It's all anyone can talk about."

"Oh," Mark said.

"And a little bird tells me," she said, almost coyly, "that Bridget's going to be there. I thought maybe you'd like to see her again now you're back."

 _Oh, Mother_ , he thought, _you have no idea_.

…

 **Monday, 23 October**

Mark dove into his work harder than ever before in North Africa. He was only there for four days, but at the conclusion of it all, just as he was about to board for Heathrow and just as he got in signal range again, he saw that he had a missed text from Bridget, inviting him to join her for a scan. He realised that the scan was that very day. No matter what he had said to her last week—had it only been a week?—he had a duty to her to attend the scan. No matter how small the chance, it might be his child.

He furiously texted her. He got nothing back. He texted again when the plane touched down; still nothing.

He got nothing back from her at all; the time of the scan came and went, and he had no idea where to go. She probably thought he'd ignored her texts, and was now giving him the silent treatment. He didn't want that misapprehension to fester. So he decided to wait for her at her flat; he figured she would eventually return, and he was right. He saw her car approach, pass by to find a place to park; he emerged and walked towards the building just as she approached from the opposite direction.

"Mark!" she called out, catching sight of him.

His heart was unexpectedly happy to see her again, and he grinned. "I couldn't find you. Didn't you get my texts? How did it go?"

Before she had a chance to answer, he realised she was not alone. Coming up from behind her was, of all people, Daniel Cleaver. Of course, though, he would have gone. He was also possibly the father of the baby.

He wasn't entirely proud of what happened next. Cleaver had taunted him with a printout of the scan, and it provoked a response in him that Cleaver had to have known would happen.

Bridget, ironically the only mature one in the group, told them to stop; Mark came to his senses, and asked if they could come up and discuss the situation like adults.

"Anyone want a cup of tea?" she asked brightly, once they were upstairs. Daniel, however, wouldn't let it go, and continued to harangue Mark, hitting him in his sore spot, teasing him about firing blanks and not have any soldiers.

Rather than do something he'd end up regretting, Mark pushed Daniel out onto the balcony, locking the French doors behind him.

"What are you doing?" Bridget asked.

"Maybe he'll jump," Mark muttered under his breath.

"Will you two stop bickering and grow up? It's like having two children." She continued to prep the tea. "Mark, let Daniel back in."

He did as asked.

Daniel fired back, "Grow up? You slept with both of us in a frankly alarmingly quick succession, like a member of Generation Z."

Mark watched as Bridget sat down tiredly.

"Look," Mark said. "The situation is far from ideal. But it is, perhaps, an opportunity for us all to look at our behaviour and responsibilities and act with everyone's best—"

Daniel interrupted, "Right, great, Mother Superior. Is one going to start singing 'Climb Every Mountain' now?"

"Tea's up!" Bridget said. "And I've got home-made muffins!"

Mark wondered if his look of horror was anything like Daniel's.

The muffins turned out to be a much of a disaster as Mark thought they might be; broken glass (kitchen accident) and broccoli (for reasons unknown to Mark), but at least the glass helped to facilitate a bit less childish conversation.

Mark decided to broach the subject of telling their parents, as he had almost already told his mother.

"Parents?" asked Daniel, looking slightly horrified.

"Yes," said Mark. "Do you have parents?"

"Not that I'm ever going to tell."

Mark remembered then that his mother had told him about an upcoming visit to Grafton Underwood, and that the following weekend was a rehearsal for the Queen's visit, where his parents and hers would both be.

"You mean we should tell them _there_?" Bridget looked horrified.

Mark nodded. "Separately, privately, of course."

She then ran her hand down over her stomach. "You can't tell I'm pregnant yet, can you?" she asked. "I can't go if everyone in the village is going to notice."

Mark looked at her—really looked at her. It was noticeable, but probably not _that_ noticeable to someone who didn't already know she was pregnant. Anyway, she might have not responded well if they agreed she looked pregnant… i.e. looked fat.

Both men, of course, answered in the negative.

…

 **Saturday, 28 October**

Well, that could have gone better.

Instead of the private talk with her parents and his that they had hoped for, because her mother noticed her pregnancy right away, it ended up coming out in front of an assembled crowd that included the Enderbys, Alconburys, Joneses, and Darcys.

Of course, her mother made a big deal of it. When Bridget tried to explain that Mark's status as father was only 50% certain, Pam Jones had asked her if she'd had of a threesome. The statement had left everyone speechless; it was tantamount in their conservative little village to human sacrifice, or something.

Mark watched as the rehearsal dispersed and she went home with her parents… and he with his. He tried to explain calmly what had happened, how the situation had come to be, but the moment they got to his parents' place, his own father began giving him a dressing-down. He didn't even wait until they got into the house before he began to lay in to him with how badly it was going to make them look.

His mother tried to intervene on his behalf, but his suddenly sober father carried on as if he were an idiot: "Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy. What's the matter with you?"

Mark squared his shoulders, firmed his jaw. "Father, I've explained to you the reality of the situation, and I'm afraid that is all I have to say. Goodbye."

He could hear his mother and father continue their conversation as he walked away down the gravel drive, back towards his car, but he had no interest in hearing it. As he walked, he could feel the adrenaline of his confrontation with his father start to wane, and he felt incredibly tired. By the time he got to the car, to his surprise, Bridget and her dad, Colin, were there. Mark braced himself for another confrontation, but to his credit, Colin merely smiled and congenially clapped him on the shoulder.

The drive back to London was much like the drive to Grafton Underwood; since the car had a driver, they could hardly have anything close to a deep conversation, so they stuck to silence or small talk, nerves slightly on edge. It gave Mark time to continue to weigh a decision he was coming closer and closer to making: even if the baby were not biologically his, he still wanted to be a father to the boy. He wanted to be the kind of father he had never really had; he wanted to be more like the approachable, genial, unconditional-loving father that Bridget had. Mark realised that this might be the only chance he'd have, if his soldiers were not up to the task, so to speak.

She, too, was evidently tired, and he felt her head slide to rest on his shoulder. He glanced down, saw she had closed her eyes. He lowered his head and risked telling her his dearest wish in a whisper as she slept.

He wanted Bridget back, too, if she'd have him. He didn't want to push his luck, though; if she had decided against him as a romantic partner, he didn't want to alienate her, so he didn't otherwise say a word about it. He had not done much during the course of their relationship to have gained her trust during tough times, by dealing with the difficult emotions and history. At the first sign of trouble—such as the scene he had witnessed with her with Daniel at their engagement party—he had instead walked away.

…

 **Sunday, 12 November**

Mark thought that he might just be able to do this co-father debacle—studying up on the mechanics of the birthing process, what to expect at every stage of the baby's development, even attending birthing class with her and the utterly classless Cleaver—for the sake of having a shot at being a father to Bridget's child.

Until today.

He turned the conversation with Daniel over in his head. There didn't seem to be much ambiguity to what he'd said after Bridget had hopped in a taxi and left them on the kerb to continue their schoolyard fight.

"Darce," Daniel had said once she was out of earshot. "I don't know how I can make this plainer. _You're_ firing blanks, and in the heat of passion, I… well, I did not suit up. So _you_ do the math."

Mark had said nothing, turned on his heel and then walked away.

Mostly, Mark felt betrayed. Why would Bridget have led him to believe there was a possibility he could be the father when Daniel had had such an obvious advantage?

He knew, though. She was bending the truth just a little to spare his feelings, maybe boost his ego; she wanted him to feel like he had a fighting chance against Daniel. And Daniel hardly wanted to be a father, so it wasn't like he had any vested interest in lying.

As much as he didn't want to distance himself, he knew that he must. Knowing the truth, he could no longer persist with the charade. So he composed a letter to Bridget to let her know that while he was perfectly willing to offer financial assistance in any way he could, he had to step back for his own good as well as hers (and the baby's).

After sealing the letter and summoning a courier to come and pick it up, he sat down with some scotch at last. He pressed the corners of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger in an effort to put an end to the headache. It didn't work.

…

The actual fact of the matter began to sink in almost immediately: Bridget was more or less out of reach now. She was having another man's child; no matter how much of a fuck-up that man had been in the past, Daniel seemed to be stepping up to his responsibility. She had no further need of Mark. He was not her knight in shining armour. Had he ever really been?

He tried to carry on as normal, but within a couple of days, on top of this personal humiliation, he suffered the greatest failure of his professional career: he lost the appeal that had taken five years of hard, persistent work in both California and in London.

He was a failure, all around. There was no denying it.

"Frederick," he said, late on Tuesday night and well into a bottle of wine, "I'm taking time away from the office."

Silence, then, "Are you all right?"

Dammit, he'd hoped he hadn't been slurring that badly. What did it matter, though? "I'm fine. Just need… a couple of weeks off."

"A… couple of _weeks_ off? You?"

"Yes."

"What shall I tell everyone?"

"You're clever. You'll come up with something."

Next he rang up and gave Fatima and the cleaners time off, with pay, for a fortnight. "Meester Darcy," said Fatima, clearly alarmed. "A holiday? What is wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just need some time to myself."

"But who will take care of the house?"

Indeed, who? Did it matter? Did anything matter?

He felt as if he were going mad.

What did he have to offer the world? What was one thing he had done in his life at which he had not failed? Relationships? Failed. Marriages, plural? Failed. Work? Failed. Mark thought back to when he was a young boy, before the pressures of adult life, to something he had loved doing, something for which his mother had given him genuine praise.

Painting. He was filled with an absolute urgency to paint again.

He phoned the car and driver, who came promptly.

"I'd like you to take me to an art supply store."

"An—art supply store?" confirmed the driver. "Any one in particular?"

"Doesn't matter. As long as they sell paint and brushes, that sort of thing."

"All right." After a moment, he added, "Mr Darcy, sir? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," he said—why did people keep asking him that?

He suspected that the art store sold him strictly more than he needed—an array of brushes, an easel, several canvases, and little tins of paint of every colour—but he felt so proud to get the carpet rolled away, to get the drop cloths spread around the place, to set up the easel, and to start painting.

…

 **Sunday, 19 November**

For days, Mark had done nothing but paint. The subject of the painting had come about organically—a man, a knight?, freed from responsibility, shedding his armour, riding like the wind on horseback through the surf at sunset. The symbolism struck to the core and spoke to his soul. He lit candles and burnt joss sticks to properly set the scene. He ordered food delivery and painted until he could no longer stand up. He hadn't looked at his mobile in days. He didn't bother with grooming or, indeed, changing out of the casual sweater and jeans he had unearthed. Shoes? Socks? Unneeded.

His landline telephone begin to ring, and he almost didn't answer it, but he grabbed it in case his dinner was going to be late in arriving.

"Mark, old chap, where have you been?" It was Jeremy. "Why aren't you at work? Why aren't you responding to text messages? Everything all right? I know the Farzad decision was a disappointment, but you frankly have everyone quite worried."

"I'm fine," Mark said, daubing some highlights onto the horse's haunches; finishing touches to his masterpiece. "Better than fine. I just needed some time to pursue other things."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it," Jeremy said, though he still sounded dubious. "Might want to check your mobile, though."

He said goodbye to Jeremy, picked up his wine bottle and took a long draw—then went in search of his mobile phone.

To his surprise, he had several messages from Bridget. The last one in particular, from two days ago, was concerning, and yet shone the slimmest beam of hope on him.

 _Mark, I feel isolated and alone. I cannot go through this testing time without the support of my dear, dear Mark. I need you to support me through this testing time._

He responded at once.

 _Bridget, I am mortified to hear that you are isolated and in distress and so sorry that I only just now got your message. Should I come now?_

He paused. His painting was finished. He found he very much wanted to show it to her. He continued typing, then sent the response.

 _Or would you like to visit for tea? I have something to show you._

She offered to come over, and she did so promptly; seeing her on the doorstep seemed to be a mirage to him, and he stood there many moments, wine bottle still in hand, looking intently at her before she spoke and snapped him out of his reverie.

He led her first down to the kitchen so that he could offer a drink or a snack, but was overwhelmed by the need to go out into the fresh air again—how stagnant and stale the incense-laden air indoors had become!—so he went straight out into the garden to take in a long, deep breath. Maybe, too, he was trying to sober up. It didn't quite work.

He came back in to see her look of confusion.

"What's going on? Why's it all messy? Why hasn't the cleaner been?"

"Given everyone a holiday. Don't need them. Oh!" he said, remembering he had wanted to show her the painting. "Come and look."

As he led her up to the living room again, he told her about how he had failed at work, failed to secure the Farzad release. "Failed at my life," he went on in resignation. "Failed as a man, and a person. But at least I can paint."

He took the sheet off of it to unveil it to her, and watched for her reaction as her eyes roamed over the landscape. Unusually, he could not read her feelings on the painting at all. Usually she was so easy to read. Was it because his senses were dulled by the wine? He asked at last, "What do you think?"

As he did, her mobile went off. She raised it from her pocket, glanced at it as she silenced it. He spotted "DANIEL" on the phone's screen.

"Yes, I suppose that's Cleaver, isn't it?" he asked. He ran his hand down his face, surprising himself with the beard growth there. "Every time I try to do something good, to stick at life, he pops up and ruins it. Honesty, work, trying to do the decent thing—all pointless, isn't it? Charm, and celebrity, that's all it's about." He paused, addressing her again. "Is he looking after you?"

"No!"

Mark was not shocked at all. "So he's not supporting you? Is it money you want?" He walked over to where he kept a stash of £20 notes in a jar, reaching in and pulling out a few. "Here, take it, plenty. Plenty money. Take all you want. Much good it's ever done me."

She looked at him with something like anger in her expression. "I don't want your money! I'm not some gold-digging single mother coming round to get cash from you. How dare you!" She turned and started heading for the door, turning back to add, "And, for your information, I'm not with Daniel Cleaver."

"You're not?"

"No," she said defiantly. "I'm doing this on my own."

With that she let herself out. He stood at the door, watching her retreat to the street, heading presumably towards her car, just as his dinner arrived. He was starving and focused his attention on that, instead.

It was not until much later that he realised she had not answered his question, and he texted her to ask: _What did you think of my painting?_

She never answered the question, not that night or any of the several times he texted or called to ask her over the next few days. She only told him to stop calling her.

…

 **Monday, 30 November**

He awoke to hear movement downstairs, confused as to who would be in his house. Silently, he rose from bed, his head blazing with pain, to go closer to the door to see if he could figure out who it was.

"Oh my God, what has been happening here?"

Fatima.

And just like that, he snapped out of it.

He dressed quickly in clean track bottoms and a tee shirt, and went downstairs, apologising profusely and scooping a stack of takeaway boxes up into his arms, the teetering stack of them threatening to topple over as he brought them to the rubbish bin.

"You been painting, Meester Darcy?" she asked.

He came back into the living room and looked at what he had considered his masterwork, only to realise that it was complete and utter crap. No wonder Bridget had never answered the question. Like always, she wouldn't have wanted to hurt his feelings.

"I clean this place up," said Fatima, looking around before turning to scrutinise him. "Maybe you… go have a shave and a shower, clean up too, before work."

Work. Oh God.

He went up to his bedroom, to the en suite bath, and looked in the mirror for the first time in days. His hair was overgrown and thoroughly unkempt, and he could not remember the last time he had shaved. He looked an utter fright. Like some kind of scary mountain man.

He knew now that it had been the lowest point of his life. Lower even than when he had foolishly broken the engagement.

He was so embarrassed of how he had been behaving, of how poorly had taken care of himself and his home, how much he had overreacted to one legal loss… how nastily he had spoken to Bridget when she was here.

She had, however, told him not to call or contact him. He had no choice but to honour that.

"Jeremy," he barked into his mobile, "I'll be in just as soon as I stop by the barber."

"Come and see me when you get in."

When he got to work, he went directly to see Jeremy; he figured that there was some new case he needed to take on. He wanted to ask if Jeremy had heard from Bridget, but didn't dare.

He was to be surprised.

"Mark, I don't know if you've talked to Bridget lately…"

"She told me not to contact her."

"Ah. Well, then you may not know that she's out of a job."

Mark's heart sunk as Jeremy explained that Magda had told him she had basically been forced to resign from her job at _Sit Up Britain_. "The woman running the place now put her into a terrible position, wanting to make her work long days and… it was a mess."

"How awful," he said; his mind was racing. What could he possibly do?

He then remembered her boss' name from years ago. Richard Finch.

He started there.

…

Within the week, he had brought his legal might down on Richard Finch and Peri Campos, getting the woman to admit that what she'd done was unethical.

"Great of you to see it my way," he said coolly, staring her down until she blinked and looked away. "You next stop is to reinstate her to her job, with full maternity leave effective the day she 'resigned', so that when she contacts you again, all she needs to do is sign an amended contract." He slipped Ms Campos a card. "Contact me if you have any further questions."

It was the least he could do.

…

One small comfort came to Mark while he was catching up on the newspapers he'd missed reading during his painting fugue: Daniel Cleaver's 'serious novel' _The Poetics of Time_ had been roundly panned by literary critics and readers alike. Mark's painting might have been totally horrible, but aside from himself and Fatima, only one other person had seen it, and she had been kind enough not to say so.

…

 **Tuesday, 2 January**

Now that the blip in his life regarding professional and personal doubts was over and in the past, things felt too quiet, too empty. He had gotten used to seeing Bridget around, and he'd hoped he would see her at least at Christmas, or on New Year's Day at the Turkey Curry Buffet, but she did not attend. He heard from his mother that Pam had been a little sad not to see her daughter come up for the holidays.

Elaine explained this all as they ate breakfast before Mark was to return to London at the end of the holidays, concluding with, "But, you know, she's preparing to have that baby, and… it's the calm before the storm."

"Nesting," he murmured, thinking of the pregnancy books he'd read.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

"Have you seen her? Talked to her at all?"

He shook his head. "Not for a month or more. She told me not to contact her."

Elaine frowned a little. "Pity."


	4. Chapter 4

**The Long Way Home**

By S. Faith, © 2017

Words: 23,353  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

 **Wednesday, 14 February**

Mark had fallen into his usual routines again; working too much, probably, but he had gotten back on that horse—lack of armour notwithstanding—and was successfully arguing in court again. January went by in a flash and it wasn't until he looked at his schedule for court that he realised which day it was, exactly halfway into February.

Valentine's Day.

He smiled wistfully, thinking of ski holidays, minibreaks to Paris, red nighties, romantic dinners in cosy restaurants… and ultimately unhappy endings, again and again, always his fault.

It wasn't until after court was adjourned and he was preparing to drive home that he realised he had a voice mail message. It was from Bridget, from no more than twenty minutes prior. Her voice was so frantic it instantly made him worry.

"Mark, it's Bridget. I have something very, very important to say to you. I did _not_ lie to you about the condoms. It was Daniel who lied. It's you I love. I love _you_. Please call me. _Please_ call me."

He played it again to make sure he had heard it correctly.

 _It's you I love._

Aside from the shock of that statement, he could only chastise himself. Of course Daniel Cleaver had lied to him. Why had he not questioned the statement? Had his ego been that fragile? He could have avoided months of heartache…

He tried to return the call, heart racing, but the phone rang endlessly each time he tried. He didn't know what to do but go to her flat. If she wasn't there, he would wait.

It took him what felt like an eternity with the traffic being as it was, and it was nearly nine in the evening and pouring like crazy before he got to her street. He found a place to park the car—thank God—and approached her building.

He was getting nearer to what he assumed was a street person sitting propped up against the wall near the door, a coat tented out around them. Mark had a brief moment of wishing he had a couple of pound coins to toss down when that figure looked up. He realised it was Bridget, soaked through to the skin and shivering, hair plastered down to her face. But she smiled at the sight of him.

He rushed to her side and helped her to her feet. "What are you doing sitting in the rain?" he asked, trying to slip out of his trusty blue overcoat. "I just missed your call. I was in court."

She looked utterly puzzled. "In court?" she asked. "What about your painting?"

He cringed. "Terrible rubbish. Don't mention it again," he said; he caught a small smile pass over her lips. "I've been calling you constantly since you rang."

"My phone's in my bag stuck in the bank."

"Your bag's stuck in the _bank_?" he repeated, baffled, getting out of the coat at last. "Here, put this on." He slipped the too-large coat over her shoulders. "Why are you on the doorstep? Where are your keys?"

"They're in the bag in the bank."

He wondered what the hell had happened that her bag—and everything in it—had gotten stuck in the bank. "They're in the bag in the bank. Jolly good. Won't enquire further right now. So! Business as usual."

He rattled the doorknob, but of course it was locked; the one night he had hoped most that someone had been lax and left it open. He reached into his suit jacket pocket for his wallet and pulled out a credit card, and tried to jimmy the lock, but had no luck. "OK," he said. "Probably get barred from the Bar for this, but here we go."

He wrapped his scarf around his fist and punched out the lower right pane of the window on the door, then reached in and unlatched the door.

As they went up the stairs, she went into a sort of auto-witter: "I'm so happy to see you. I didn't lie to you. I'd never lie to you. There were dolphin condoms both times. I realised I've been brainwashed over the years by all the things that have happened…"

As she went on, he reached for the credit card again, and deftly slipped the lock.

"Yes, I think we need to look at some security issues here. You were saying?"

She was looking at him with big, round, mournful eyes. "I thought that you mustn't let an old love know you still love him, in case he thinks you still love him."

He didn't know what to say. It made no sense. _Don't tell me you love me, in case I think you still love me?_ he thought.

"Mark?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"You love me?" he repeated, still somewhat in disbelief.

"Yes. And I'm really, simply, genuinely sorry."

"No," he said. " _I'm_ sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry."

After a little teasing, she insisted he let her give her speech, and the things that she said about him pleased and touched him: most decent, kindest, most intelligent, most sensitive with the deepest soul; also the hottest, most handsome, witty, charming, and stylish. "And the best, most amazing shag ever." He smiled broadly at this, his own icy heart thawing. "You are the person I most love in all the world, apart from the baby, and it's you that I really want from the depths of my heart to be the father to this baby." She paused. "I mean, obviously, Shaz, Tom and Miranda say you have a poker up your arse and are anally retentive and avoidant, and you're always talking about work, and always on the phone and—"

" _Permanently_ on the phone," he corrected sheepishly, "stuck up, and snobbish, and emotionally stunted."

"—but they're completely wrong," Bridget said. "The truth is I love you very much…"

"…with a few adjustments perhaps: Wittier?" Mark asked. "More spontaneous? More playful? More charming? More…?"

"No," she interrupted firmly. "Just as you are."

He felt emotional, but tamped it down, and offered, "That's my line."

The smoke alarm chose that very second to kill the moment by bleating away.

"Shit," said Bridget. "The curry."

"You've made _curry_?" he asked, wondering when she'd had time with the bank trip and everything else. "Happy Valentine's Day, by the way."

"No, it's takeaway from the Pink Elephant. It's _Valentine's Day_?" she shouted back. "I forgot I put it in the oven the day before yesterday to heat up."

Bridget forgetting Valentine's Day was like a child forgetting they were going to Disneyland, but he supposed there was a first time for everything. He punched the code in to get the alarm to stop going off, and at last, blessed silence. "Yes, Valentine's Day." He turned on the vent fan and opened the French door to the balcony to air out the awful curry/polystyrene fumes. He pulled the melted box out of the oven and dropped it directly into the bin.

He turned back to her. "Do you know one of the things I love most about you, Bridget?"

"What?" she asked eagerly.

"That in all the time I've known you, I've never once been bored by you."

"Oh?"

He had a feeling he might have to explain, and so he did: near-death experiences, on fire (literally in the kitchen, figuratively in bed), poisoned, crazed with lust, furious, heartbroken, humiliated, confounded, forced into fistfights and into breaking-and-entering scenarios… "But," he finished, "never for a single second have I been bored."

"But am I intelligent?"

Yes.

"And pretty and thin?"

Yes.

"Apart from being completely spherical," he said, taking in her very rounded pregnant belly, considerably larger than it was when last he saw her. "Spherical yet brave. You've been absolutely heroic and magnificent the last eight months, doing this on your own with all these antics in the background." He felt brave, too. Happy. And filled with love. "And now you're going to do it with me, whoever's biological baby it is. I love you and I love our baby."

"I love you both too," she said, then leapt into his arms, hugging him as tightly as she held him, getting the front of his suit wet. He didn't care.

He kissed her, brushed her sodden hair away from her face.

"Darling," he said. "Go and get dried off, and I'll order us something to eat. How does Chinese strike you? Your fireplace still works, right?"

She nodded, smiled, then went off towards the bedroom. He placed the food order then stripped out of his suit jacket, took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. The food arrived before she was finished getting changed; she came out in a comfy cotton nightgown, the fabric of it draping over her rounded belly, accentuating it. He loved the sight of it.

They ate the Chinese food by the fireplace; it was so familiar, so wonderful, so _right_. It was like it used to be with her, only better, somehow. No more walls were in place. Everything was open. She was everything safe to him.

They talked about everything under the sun; they decided to stay in her flat instead of his house for the duration; he told her about what he'd done for her at work, and all she needed to do to complete her full reinstatement.

He felt at peace, and totally happy.

She got to her feet. "Shall we go to bed?" she asked.

He agreed. It had been a long, tiring day, and he wanted nothing more than curl up in bed with her. He stripped down to his boxers, went around to his side of the bed; he slipped in and pulled the covers to his chin when he noticed she was still standing there, giving him what could best be described as an expectant look—no pun intended.

"What are you doing?"

"Going to bed…?" he asked, confused.

She clucked her tongue, pulled back her side of the duvet, sat down, pulled the nightgown over her head and tossed it onto the chair in the corner. She then shot him a glance over her shoulder. "You're wearing too much," she said.

Message received. _Foolish assumption_ , he thought as he pushed aside the covers on his side and shimmied out of his boxers. He then turned back to her, beside him in the bed, and took her in his arms, diving upon her with a kiss, falling wholly into the lushness of her.

He had never before made love with a woman that was so fully pregnant; there were some adjustments that they had to make, but the novelty of the situation, the amount of time they had been apart, everything was—

"A. May. Zing," Bridget breathed afterward, as they were curled in one another's arms.

"Pregnant women don't shag like that," Mark murmured close against her skin.

"Oh yes, they fucking well do," she retorted playfully.

…

 **Saturday, 3 March**

Mark never would have expected a speech he'd given to move his father emotionally, but he was glad to have elicited it. The occasion was the vote for the honoured position to the right of the Queen during her visit to Grafton Underwood, and when his father announced that Bridget's mother had got the vote, Mavis Enderbury objected, giving outdated and frankly racist reasons for the objection, mostly based on village gossip. Mark had felt moved to leap up onto the stage to speak in Pam Jones' defence. Not only for her, but for Colin Jones, and Bridget, and for himself as well.

In reminding everyone the hardships that the Queen's own family had endured at the hands of gossip, he reminded them what was really important: strength, decency, resilience, and not to stand in judgment of others.

"And I say this to you now," orated Mark, "as, not only a son of this village, but—" He paused to smile at Bridget. "—as the father—" The crowd murmur rose all over the hall; he knew why. "Yes, yes, whoever the biological father turns out to be, and we don't know yet—the father of Grafton Underwood's about-to-be newest grandchild."

A cheer rose, and an impromptu vote reaffirmed that Pam Jones would have the honoured seat to the right of the Queen. Quite suddenly, and without warning, he felt himself being hugged by his father, Admiral Darcy. He knew that his father found it difficult to express his emotions and affection—Mark had come by it honestly—so he gladly returned the hug.

"I love you, son," his father said with an unsteady voice. "I always did."

"I love you too, Father," Mark replied, glancing to his mother, who had a hand over her open mouth. He could see the tears in her eyes, though, and knew they were happy tears. He whispered the words to her, "I love you too."

Just as quickly as he initiated the hug, the admiral drew away. "Anyway," he said, pulling himself together. "Jolly good. Let's press on."

It was never too late to press on.

…

 **Friday, 23 March**

Just like his mother, the baby was late in arriving, and like everything else about life with Bridget, it was not without chaos. Conspiring against them was enough luggage to last a European tour and London streets gridlocked with wall-to-wall traffic, but they had an unlikely ally in their time of need.

With the help of Daniel Cleaver, Mark managed to carry Bridget—literally carry her—to the hospital for delivery. It wouldn't have been normal had they not squabbled, surely. But they had stopped when she asked them to stop, and managed to get her there and into delivery, and not have to stop to manage it in the middle of the street.

The time that he and Daniel spent in the waiting room seemed an eternity. Daniel, for his part, apologised for his deception about the condom. "I don't know what I was thinking," Daniel said. "Wasn't fair to you, or to her. Obviously I'll pull my weight if he turns out to be mine…" With that he drifted off.

Mark murmured that he accepted the apology, and neither said anything more until a nurse came to tell them they could join the new mum in her room. "And… your son," she finished, her eyes moving between the men.

They joined her in the room just as Bridget was holding the baby for the first time, she with her nose touched to his and speaking softly to the baby through her tears. Mark felt his own eyes tearing up. Under the tiny little knit cap on the baby's head, he could see dark, dark hair, and he knew at that moment, instinctively, as he glanced to Daniel's sandy brown hair, that he would himself be the father.

Daniel was sobbing as he grasped onto Mark's arm tightly. "It's just, it's all been so emotional," he said.

"I know, I know," Mark responded, his voice quavering. "Look, can you let go?"

Dr Rawlings herded both men out of the room just as the Joneses arrived. Mark was confused for a moment until Dr Rawlings reminded them, "Have to take a bit of blood to do the paternity test, then you can join the party again. Won't be but a few minutes, and we'll know."

Regardless of how he might have felt deep down inside, Mark was on pins and needles. His instinct was usually right, but not always. The two of them returned to her room, sitting like they were waiting for exam marks. Daniel reached out for Mark's hand to hold it for support, and Mark didn't object. It helped to calm his nerves.

Dr Rawlings returned to give the name of the baby's father, but asked Bridget if she wanted it to be announced in front of everyone. She looked to Mark and to Daniel, saying, "I think we're all family, aren't we?"

They both could not help but agree. A bit unbalanced and dysfunctional, but family all the same.

When the doctor read out Mark's own name, confirming what he had before only felt to be true, he could only smile and step forward to take the child into his arms. He heard Daniel expressing a certain relief that he had not turned out to be the father, though he tried belatedly to reassure her that it was not her but him. "I just know my limitations. May the best man win!"

Mark could only focus on the baby in his arms, his boy, his son, and felt his eyes well. "Why don't you ask?" he whispered, without elaboration, but she knew to what he was referring. She then asked Daniel to be the godfather.

Daniel, to his credit, seemed at a loss for words, and choked up before pulling himself together and agreeing. "And since my godchild is a boy, you don't have to worry about me trying to shag her when she's twenty."

Dr Rawlings then shooed everyone out of the room; Bridget called her dad to come back in because he hadn't held the baby yet. Carefully, Mark handed the baby over to Colin, who joked, "Oops, better not let his head fall off." Colin spent many moments just staring down at the newborn, his eyes glossing over with tears. "Take care of him," said Colin, to Mark. "And of her."

"Mr Jones," Mark said, "if I am a fraction as good a father as you have been to Bridget, I will be—"

" _He_ will be the luckiest baby in the world," Colin supplied.

At that moment, the baby flailed out one tiny fist that managed to both connect with a glass of cordial that someone had poured in celebration as well as striking the monitoring equipment. The cordial spilled everywhere and the monitors went into a blinking, beeping fury. Naturally, Dr Rawlings came running back in, thinking something was gravely wrong with Bridget.

"Like mother, like son," Mark shouted over the cacophony with a grin. "Bridget?"

"What?" she shouted back.

"Will you marry me?"

Daniel butted in, "Jones? I suppose one last shag would be out of the question?"

Bridget shouted back one answer, which Mark hoped was directed to the both of them: "Yes!"

…

Eventually they were left alone, and with the baby snuggled safely in her arms Mark posed the question again. She smiled. "Did you doubt I heard you the first time?" she asked, then chuckled a little. "It could be the pain meds talking, but yes, you big goof, I'll marry you."

He leaned forward and kissed her, then kissed the baby on the forehead.

"But you have to promise you're not going to bail on us," she said, "the first time you catch me joking around with Daniel."

Her joking tone belied the very serious concern she understandably raised.

He held her gaze unflinchingly. "I promise I'll never leave you," he said.

What a fool he had been to split with her, to leave for a job halfway around the world, to waste nearly five years away from her. He supposed that going away and marrying the antithesis of Bridget taught him a lesson he wouldn't have otherwise learned. From this moment forward, though, he intended on making up for his mistakes… in spades.

…

 **Monday, 26 March**

"So, third time's the charm, eh?"

Leave it to Jeremy to put it in such terms, but Mark could only smile; he and Jeremy were fixing lunch for Bridget and Magda, who were cooing over the baby while he slept. "That's one way to put it," said Mark.

"Seeing you two and your beautiful boy, Mark, I have to say it's helped put me straight," Jeremy said. "I've treated Magda poorly and I've taken her for granted. She's still doubtful, but I'm going to prove her wrong."

"Good for you," Mark said, and he meant it. "Now, we've got some soup and sandwiches to deliver to two hungry women."

Bridget had taken to motherhood like a duck to water; with her foot, she idly rocked the baby carrier that sat on the floor while she feasted on toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.

Magda teased, "You two actually cooked this yourselves?"

"It was Jeremy's idea," Mark said. "Said it'd be good comfort food."

"Really?" Magda smiled, clearly warming to the idea of her husband being a changed man.

After they had partaken of lunch, Magda and Jeremy cleaned up the plates. Magda seemed to know instinctively when they should take their leave—having been a mother copious times, she obviously knew the signs of fatigue intimately—and once Mark had seen them to the door, he returned to find Bridget leaning lazily back, lids half-closed, smiling.

"That was nice," Bridget said. "Nice to see them not bickering. I really hope they can get through this rough patch."

He sat beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders. She rested against him, her hand against his chest. "Having felt the benefits of working through a rough patch," Mark said, "I hope so too." He rested his cheek against her hair, gazing down upon little William—his baby with her, _their son_ —and felt a wave of happiness and contentment wash over him.

…

 **Friday, 6 June**

As much as Mark loved the cosiness and hominess of Bridget's flat, scaling the stairs to her upper floor flat with the baby stroller was beginning to take a toll on his back. He also thought about how nice it'd be to have Fatima to keep things tidy so they could focus on the baby—with a rise in pay to make up for the increase in work, obviously.

"Bridget," he said, "how would you feel about relocating to my house? Where there's a ground floor, where we can store the stroller and even have room for the massive Bugaboo from your parents' place, and a housekeeper…" He trailed off.

"Oh my God, I thought you'd never ask," she said with a grin, relief obvious in her voice. "I know how much you like it here, but I'm getting a bit of cabin fever, and honestly I've been a bit worried about that stroller and your back."

Mark smiled. "It's settled, then."

After seeing what she had packed for her hospital visit, Mark worried that she might want to pack half of the flat to relocate to Holland Park, but to his surprise, she didn't. Most of what she did pack was for the baby.

Shortly after they arrived at the house, Fatima met them with a smile, then brought him a pile of post. "This didn't seem very urgent," she explained, "compared to the baby and all."

"Thanks," he said, taking a quick look through the stack of envelopes.

One addressed to him stood out in particular, and not just because it was slightly larger than the others; the return address was familiar, and it was postmarked in San Francisco, California. He felt his stomach drop with the dread of opening it, wondered how Bridget would react—

"What's that?"

It was Bridget, her expression one of curiosity.

He turned his gaze to her. "It feels like a greeting card," he said.

"Ooh, that's nice, right?"

"It's from Natasha."

"Ugh." She then winced and added, "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologise, darling," he said. "I don't have to open it."

"Mark," Bridget said earnestly, "I think you do. Otherwise you're always going to wonder what she had to say."

She was, of course, completely right.

He slipped a fingernail under the flap, then pulled out the card within. It was probably the most unemotional, generic card she could possibly have sent for the birth of a child, which did not surprise him in the least. He opened it to read what she had to say.

 _Mark,_

 _I've heard through the grapevine that you've been blessed with a son. Congratulations are in order—the Darcy name shall live on. I wish you the best, and as much happiness as you can manage given the circumstances._

 _Natasha_

"That _cow_ ," said Bridget. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, wishing you happiness 'given the circumstances'?"

Mark tore the card into pieces and pitched it into the bin. "You know how she is. Put it out of your thoughts."

Unexpectedly, tears came to her eyes. "It's not as easy as all that, Mark. You _married_ her. You left me for no reason at all, wouldn't talk to me about it; you broke our engagement, you left the country, and you married _her_."

He didn't know quite what to say, but he could only try; she deserved an explanation. "You're right. You do," said Mark. "It's a mistake I'll never stop regretting. I didn't deal like I should have with the emotional wound. I left when I should have stayed and worked it out with you. But at the time… I had plunged myself into total isolation away from anything familiar. I felt alone and hopeless, and when she turned up, I stupidly went for a backup plan that I had long since discarded. I can't make excuses, because I never once for a moment stopped loving you. I can only spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you—"

"What did you say?" she interrupted.

He drew his brows together. "Which part?"

"The middle part," she said. "You _never_ stopped loving me?"

"Of course I didn't," he said tenderly, raising his hand to wipe away her tears. "Natasha was a business merger. You are my soul mate."

She didn't say anything; she just threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. His arms came up and around her, holding her close to him, kissing her just as ardently in return until she broke away to press her face into his neck for a tight hug. "Mark," she said after a long while. "You never think you say the right thing, but you manage when it counts."

"I love you," he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. "I'll never stop."

…

It was hard, at first, for Mark to let go of the behaviour with which he'd been programmed since childhood; a home life based on love, and not the mindless obedience, high expectations, and discipline of Eton and public schools he'd attended since he was a child. He did a lot of reading and followed Bridget's lead. He thought a lot about how Colin Jones might handle a certain situation, and then did his best to emulate it.

Before long, it became second nature. Bridget, Mark, and little William snuggling on the sofa together, William 'helping' Mummy and Daddy with dinner… he soon realised he could not imagine sending the greatest source of joy in his life away to school at such a tender age.

William was almost a year old when he noticed that Bridget had seemed more troubled than not in recent days. He asked her what was wrong.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Do you really want to know?" she asked.

"What do you mean by that?" Mark asked, genuinely perplexed. "Why would I not want to know if I asked?"

"It's you," she said. "You've been… talking in your sleep." Her eyes became glossy, as if she were about to cry. He remembered his dreams of late, dreams of Eton and the long, lonely nights and school bullies. He wondered what he had said in his sleep. "I didn't know quite how hard that must have been for you, Mark. I'm sorry."

"Oh, darling," he said, taking her into his arms. "I'm sorry to have caused you any worry. Being a father has brought a lot of old memories churning up to the surface about my own childhood, and I guess it's bleeding through from my subconscious. With you, with our little boy, though… I'll work through it."

"What can I do to help?" she asked, drawing back.

"Just being there helps."

She bit her lower lip between her teeth. "What about, like… just wrapping my arms around you and holding you close?"

He smiled, even laughed a little. "More than acceptable."

"Even if I wake you up?"

"Even so."

That night, in the dim of their bedroom, Mark woke suddenly with tears in his eyes and Bridget clinging to him like a koala; she'd been true to her word, and he felt instantly better.

"Oh, my poor Mark," she said, drying his tears and kissing his dampened cheek. "Are you all right?"

"Better," he said, turning over to return the embrace, which led him to returning the kiss, which further led to… utter carnal bliss. He drifted back to sleep afterwards, and had no further dreams of public school that night.

…

"Mark?"

"Hm?" Mark said, reading the newspaper with a coffee.

"You know how I'm not on birth control since I'm still breastfeeding?"

"I do know," he said.

"And do you remember a few weeks ago—maybe a month?—how we…" she drifted off, glancing to where William sat in his high chair. "…well. You know. In the middle of the night?"

He thought of the memory with some fondness. "Mm-hmm."

"Without stopping to… you know. Suit up."

At last he lowered the paper. "What exactly are you trying to tell me?" he asked.

She approached him and rested a clearly positive pregnancy test on the table before him.

"Surprise."

So much for firing blanks, indeed.

 _The End._


End file.
